Friday, July 19, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
July turned the Forman house into a slow cooker.
The air was thick enough to chew. The fan in the living room pushed warm wind in lazy circles like it had given up on the concept of relief. Kitty kept the curtains half-drawn to "keep the heat out," which never worked, but it made her feel like she was doing something.
Red came home from the plant with his shirt sticking to his back and his patience already spent. The overtime cuts hadn't killed them yet—but they'd changed the way Kitty looked at the grocery list, the way Red looked at the paper, and the way the house went quiet whenever someone mentioned bills.
Monica watched all of it from the safest place a child could watch: the edge of rooms.
Not invisible—because Laurie would never allow that.
But quiet enough that adults forgot she was listening.
Today was "hair day," which was Kitty's term for the ritual where she took Laurie—sometimes both girls—into town to look respectable. Kitty didn't call it vanity. Kitty called it "presentation," as if presentation could keep bad luck away.
Monica knew the truth.
Hair was armor in small towns.
Hair told everyone whether you were struggling.
Hair told everyone whether your husband loved you.
Hair told everyone whether you belonged.
Kitty had her purse, her coupons, and the particular brightness that meant she was nervous. "Okay!" she sang out too cheerfully. "We're going to Mrs. Kline's."
Laurie spun away from the mirror in the hallway, pleased with herself already. "Good. My hair is ugly."
Kitty blinked. "Your hair is not ugly."
Laurie made a face. "Yes it is. Monica's hair is nicer."
Monica sat on the stairs, legs tucked to the side, and kept her face neutral.
She'd learned something important this year:
Laurie weaponized compliments as accusations.
Kitty's smile wobbled. "Laurie—don't say that."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "It's true."
Eric toddled into the hallway, hair stuck up in the back, clutching a toy car like it was an extension of his personality. "Car!"
Kitty scooped him up with a practiced motion, kissed his forehead, and then looked to Monica.
"Monica, sweetheart—shoes."
Monica slid her feet into her shoes without being asked again. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's expression softened—relief, because Monica was always the easy one.
That wasn't kindness.
That was strategy.
Because Monica knew: if Kitty cracked, Red would come home to a war zone, and Red did not do war gently.
They drove into town with the windows down because the car didn't have air conditioning and Red would rather melt than admit he needed anything "fancy."
The wind whipped Kitty's curls and made Laurie squawk.
"Mom! My hair!"
Kitty laughed too brightly. "It'll be fine, honey!"
Laurie scowled, grabbing at the strands. "It's going to look terrible!"
Monica stared out the window, watching Point Place move past in sun-bleached slices: porches, lawns, women in aprons, men in undershirts working on cars, kids chasing each other through sprinklers.
The town looked lazy.
But Monica knew it wasn't.
Point Place was busy all the time.
Busy judging.
Busy listening.
Busy deciding who was "respectable" and who was "trash."
Mrs. Kline's salon was small—one narrow room with two chairs, a row of mirrors, and the thick, sharp smell of chemicals. It wasn't glamorous. But Kitty treated it like church.
The bell above the door jingled when they entered.
Mrs. Kline looked up from behind the counter, cigarette perched in an ashtray, rollers in her own hair like she was mid-transformation. "Kitty Forman."
Kitty beamed. "Hi, Marge!"
Marge Kline's smile was friendly in the way of women who made their living hearing secrets. "Well, look at you. And the girls."
Laurie immediately stepped forward like a queen presenting herself. "Hi."
Marge's eyes slid over Laurie's hair, then flicked to Monica—measuring in a different way. "And this one's Monica."
Monica smiled politely. "Hello, ma'am."
Marge blinked—just like Mrs. Palmer always did—caught off guard by a little girl who spoke like she'd been trained.
Kitty laughed nervously. "She's—she's very polite."
Marge hummed, amused. "Yeah. I can see that."
Kitty settled into the familiar rhythm of Point Place womanhood: small talk that wasn't small at all.
Marge motioned to the chair. "Laurie first?"
Laurie climbed into the salon chair like it was a throne.
Kitty perched on the waiting bench with Eric in her lap, bouncing him gently and forcing cheer into her face.
Monica sat beside her, hands folded neatly.
Marge draped the cape over Laurie, then started combing her hair with brisk confidence. "So. How's Red?"
Kitty smiled. "Oh, he's… he's fine."
Marge's eyes flicked to Kitty in the mirror. "Plant still doing that overtime nonsense?"
Kitty's smile tightened. "It's… less now."
Marge snorted. "Course it is."
Kitty laughed too quickly, trying to soften the bluntness. "Well, you know… it'll pick back up."
Marge shrugged like she didn't believe in "it'll." "Mm."
Laurie stared at herself in the mirror, enjoying the attention, but her eyes flicked toward Kitty when money talk happened—because Laurie understood that money changed what she could ask for.
Eric squirmed, trying to escape Kitty's lap.
Monica listened, quiet.
Marge chatted while she worked, fingers fast. "You hear about the new place in Kenosha? Fancy salon. Big mirrors. New styles."
Kitty perked up instinctively—curiosity, hunger, the way she always did when there was a chance to feel modern. "Oh! No, I didn't hear."
Marge smirked. "Yeah, well. You wouldn't. Not unless you read the right magazines."
Kitty laughed, embarrassed. "I don't have time for magazines."
Marge's eyes slid toward Monica again, quick and sharp. "Maybe your little one does."
Kitty blinked. "Oh—Monica—she—she's just a kid."
Monica kept her face neutral.
Marge turned Laurie's head gently, snipping hair with quick, practiced motions. "Still. Girls see things. They remember."
Monica watched the scissors.
Watched the way Marge's hands didn't shake.
Watched the way Marge could change a person's shape with nothing but sharp metal and confidence.
In her old life, Monica had lived in salons. She'd learned how to read hair texture like a map. She'd learned the politics of beauty—how a haircut could make a woman feel powerful or ashamed depending on who did it and why.
But here, in 1963, it was rawer.
More important.
Because women didn't have as many doors.
Hair was one of the few ways they could control how the world read them.
Monica stared at Marge's tools: combs, scissors, clips, rollers, bottles. A little universe of skill.
A little universe of independence.
Marge might listen to everyone's secrets, but Marge didn't have to smile like Mrs. Palmer.
Marge didn't have to pretend her life was perfect.
Marge had a trade.
Monica's mind—always moving—made a quiet click.
Hair wasn't just armor.
Hair was leverage.
Monica's gaze slid to the shelf behind the counter: magazines fanned out, covers bright.
A woman with a sleek bob.
A headline about "modern cuts."
A smaller headline about "wash-and-wear styles."
Monica's chest tightened, not with fear—excitement.
She knew what was coming.
She knew when the sharp, geometric cuts would explode. She knew the wave of fashion and the way even small towns would try to follow it years later, copying silhouettes they didn't fully understand.
She knew the hunger women would feel to look "new."
And hunger always made money.
Kitty shifted beside her, watching Laurie in the mirror like she was trying to measure whether Laurie looked "happy enough."
Monica looked at Kitty's hair—carefully set, carefully maintained, constantly fought against humidity and stress.
Kitty would never admit she wanted something modern until other women had it first.
Kitty needed permission.
But Laurie?
Laurie wanted attention more than permission.
Laurie would chase trends the moment she thought it would make her superior.
Monica could use that later.
Not yet.
Later.
Marge finished Laurie's trim and fluffed it into place with practiced hands. "There."
Laurie stared at herself, pleased. "I look pretty."
Marge smirked. "You do."
Laurie's chin lifted like she expected applause.
Kitty clapped softly, too bright. "Oh, honey! You look beautiful!"
Laurie's eyes glittered with victory.
Then Marge turned her gaze to Monica. "You next?"
Kitty hesitated. "Oh—Monica doesn't really need—"
Marge waved her hand. "Every kid needs a trim."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Well—okay. Just a little."
Monica climbed into the chair obediently, heart steady.
She didn't actually need a trim.
But the chair offered something else:
Time.
An excuse to watch.
Marge draped the cape around Monica and started combing through her hair. "You got good hair," she muttered. "Thick. Healthy."
Kitty beamed like it was praise she deserved. "Oh, thank you."
Marge's eyes flicked to Monica in the mirror. "You talk like a grown-up."
Monica blinked slowly, pretending shyness. "Mommy says manners."
Marge snorted, amused. "Smart."
Kitty laughed nervously. "She's—she's very smart."
Marge tilted her head slightly, eyes sharpening. "Yeah?"
Kitty's smile wobbled. "Just—normal smart."
Monica felt Kitty's panic in the air like static.
Kitty didn't want Monica labeled.
Labeled meant attention.
Attention meant rumors.
Rumors meant someone at school "testing" Monica until Monica stopped looking like a child and started looking like a problem.
Monica understood.
So she gave Marge something harmless.
Monica pointed at the comb and asked softly, "How cut?"
Marge blinked. "Huh?"
Monica repeated, child-simple. "How you cut hair."
Marge's face softened. "Oh. You want to know?"
Monica nodded earnestly.
Marge's smile turned real. "Well… you gotta know the shape. And you gotta know what the hair wants to do."
Monica watched her hands.
Watched the angle of the scissors.
Watched the way Marge held tension in the hair between her fingers.
Monica nodded like she was learning something new.
She wasn't.
But she acted like she was.
Because acting normal meant acting curious, not capable.
Marge snipped a tiny bit. "There. Just a little."
Kitty relaxed instantly, relief flooding her face because Monica hadn't performed anything "too much."
Monica climbed down, thanked Marge politely, and sat back beside Kitty.
Kitty paid at the counter, counting money carefully but smiling like she wasn't.
Marge leaned in slightly, voice low. "Tell Red if he ever needs a side job, my brother-in-law's got work."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "Oh—no, Red would never—"
Marge's eyes narrowed. "He's proud. But proud don't pay bills."
Kitty's smile faltered, pain flashing.
Monica watched Kitty's fingers tighten around her purse strap.
Kitty forced cheer. "We're fine, Marge. Really."
Marge shrugged like she didn't believe in "fine."
They left the salon with Laurie preening and Kitty holding the grocery money tighter than before.
Outside, the sun hit them like a slap.
Kitty squinted. "Okay—let's go home."
Laurie chattered about how she looked "like a movie star."
Eric babbled "car car car" and slapped the window.
Monica sat quietly in the backseat, hair smelling like salon product, mind storing blueprints.
When they got home, Kitty hurried inside to start dinner before Red arrived.
Laurie ran upstairs to stare at herself longer.
Eric toddled after Kitty, whining for attention.
Monica went to her room.
She opened her Future Box carefully, like it was something holy.
She took out the tiny folded paper from last month—Hair. Modern cuts. Salon. Save.
She stared at it.
Then she added a new line beneath it, small and precise:
Tools. Mirror. Skill = door.
Monica folded the paper again, smaller.
She hid it deeper.
And when she closed the box, she felt it—quiet certainty.
Not a dream.
A plan.
She would build anyway.
Even if she had to do it softly, slowly, in a town that hated girls who moved ahead of their place.