Lara sat in the kitchen staring at the documents. Her hands were trembling. Viktor stood by the window with his back to her.
“Vitya, are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“But it’s been thirty years…”
“That’s exactly why. Thirty years of deception.”
Lara set the papers aside. Her head was spinning. Her whole world had flipped upside down in one evening. That morning she’d been making him breakfast—and now he was demanding a divorce.
“What deception? What are you talking about?”
Viktor turned around. His face was stone.
“Don’t pretend. I know everything about your visits to Nadya. About you talking about what a terrible husband I am.”
“Oh my God, Vitya! We were just chatting!”
“Chatting… and also discussing how to leave me.”
Lara jumped up. The chair toppled over.
“Have you lost your mind? When did I ever want to leave you?”
“You’ll sign the documents tomorrow. The lawyer will explain everything.”
“What documents?”
“Division of property. Everything fair.”
Viktor grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
“Wait! What about the apartment? And the dacha?”
“It’s in my name. Legally, it’s mine.”
“How is it yours? We bought it together!”
“You haven’t worked for the last ten years. What contribution did you make?”
The door slammed. Lara was left alone with the papers and her collapsed world. She sank to the floor beside the fallen chair. What was happening? How did it come to this? Just yesterday they were watching TV together. She’d been massaging his shoulders. He’d been complaining about work.
The next day the lawyer arrived—young, wearing glasses. He spread the papers out on the same table. Lara made tea. Her hands were still shaking.
“Here’s how it is, Larisa Petrovna. Mr. Smirnov is offering you ten thousand rubles as compensation for moral damages.”
“Ten thousand? For thirty years?”
“The apartment is registered in his name. The dacha as well. The car is registered to his mother.”
“To his mother? She’s been dead for five years!”
“It was recently re-registered to him through inheritance. Everything is legal.”
Lara read the documents. The letters swam before her eyes. How had he managed to pull it all off? When? While she was washing his shirts and cooking borscht, he’d been planning her destruction.
“Where am I supposed to live?”
“That isn’t my question, I’m sorry. I’m just the attorney.”
“Just the attorney… and I’m just a fool, right?”
The lawyer adjusted his glasses. He looked uncomfortable.
“You have one week to move out. Sign here.”
Lara took the pen. Her hand wouldn’t obey. Thirty years of marriage ended with a single signature. One stroke of ink—and that was it. No family. No home. No life.
A week later she stood by the entrance with two bags. Viktor had ordered everything else thrown away. Even the children’s photos. Even her mother’s earrings.
“Old junk isn’t needed,” he said without looking her in the eyes. “Start a new life.”
“Vitya, how can you?”
“Easily. Very easily.”
He shut the door. Forever. Lara stood there for another minute, then lifted the bags and walked to the bus stop. The bus didn’t come for a long time. Passersby stared at a woman with her things. They probably thought she was a drunk thrown out—or something worse.
Her friend Nadya met her at the door in tears.
“Lar, he’s gone completely savage. How can someone do that?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Lara sat on a folding cot in Nadya’s one-room apartment and burst into tears. At fifty-seven, to be left with nothing… No home, no money, no future. What was she supposed to do now? Where could she go? Who could she count on?
“Nadya, I’m done for. Completely done for.”
“Don’t say that. We’ll figure something out.”
“Figure what out? I don’t know anyone! I haven’t worked anywhere! My passport is even expired!”
“Tomorrow we’ll go get your passport renewed. Then we’ll look for a job.”
“What job? Who needs me at this age?”
Nadya sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Lar, you’re beautiful. You’re smart. Your hands are golden. We’ll find something.”
“Golden, sure… all I can do is cook borscht.”
“And that’s a skill. You can work as a cook.”
Lara wiped her tears. A cook… why not? Only who would take her—without experience, without documents, without references?
In the morning Lara woke up on the folding cot. Her neck ached. Nadya had already left for work and left a note: “Breakfast is in the fridge. Don’t lose heart.”
Lara sat up. Silence. Strange, without the usual bustle. Viktor used to wake her early, demand coffee. Now there was no one to feed. No one needed her.
Her phone rang. An unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
“Larisa Petrovna? This is Anna Ivanovna—your former neighbor. I heard about what happened…”
“Yes. It’s all true.”
“You see, I need a helper. Around the house. I’m not young anymore, it’s hard alone. Could you come by and see?”
Lara shot to her feet. A job?
“Of course! When can I come?”
“Even today. Write down the address.”
An hour later Lara was ringing the bell of an unfamiliar apartment. Anna Ivanovna turned out to be a tiny elderly woman with kind eyes.
“Come in, come in. We’ll have some tea.”
The apartment was large but neglected—dust, clutter. Anna Ivanovna poured tea from a beautiful set.
“I’m seventy-eight. My son lives in America. He sends money, but there’s no one to help. Cleaning, cooking, shopping. Can you handle it?”
“Of course I can!”
“And how much do you want?”
Lara hesitated. How much should she ask? She didn’t even know the going rate.
“I don’t know… whatever you offer.”
“Twenty thousand a month. Plus lunches here. Does that work for you?”
“Yes! Absolutely!”
Anna Ivanovna smiled.
“Then start tomorrow. Nine in the morning.”
Lara walked home and couldn’t believe it. A job! She had a job! Twenty thousand—it felt like a fortune.
That evening Nadya was thrilled.
“Lar, that’s great! I know Anna Ivanovna, she’s a good woman. She won’t hurt you.”
“Nadya… can I really do it?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve run a household your whole life. You’ll do it easily.”
The first week was hard. Lara was used to her own apartment, and here everything was чужое—foreign. Where things were kept, how the stove worked, what detergent to use. Anna Ivanovna was patient, explaining and showing her.
“Larochka, don’t worry so much. You cook very well.”
“Thank you. I’m trying.”
“And what about your husband—there’s no way to reach an agreement?”
Lara was washing dishes, hands in suds, and the tears came on their own.
“No. He hates me now. Thinks I betrayed him.”
“Did you betray him?”
“Never! I only complained to my friend sometimes. All wives complain.”
“Of course they do. That’s normal.”
Anna Ivanovna patted her shoulder.
“You know what, dear? Men often go a bit crazy at this age. Some kind of crisis. They think life passed them by.”
“And women—do we have it any easier?”
“It’s hard for women too. But we’re stronger. We know how to start over.”
Lara dried her hands on a towel. Start over… at fifty-seven. Terrifying. But there was no other choice.
A month later she already felt more confident. Anna Ivanovna praised her borscht, admired how clean the apartment was. She even gave her a raise.
“Larochka, have you thought about taking some courses?”
“What courses?”
“Hairdressing, for example. Or manicures. You have golden hands.”
Lara thought about it. Why not? She had some money now, and time. Maybe she really could learn a profession.
“How much does it cost?”
“Not much. My neighbor went—she says the courses are good. They give a diploma in three months.”
That evening Lara told Nadya.
“Lar, that’s fantastic! A hairdresser is always in demand. People will always need haircuts.”
“What if I can’t do it?”
“You can! You have an eye for beauty. Remember how you got me ready for prom?”
Lara remembered. Back then she was seventeen. She’d dreamed of becoming a stylist, but her parents had talked her out of it—said it wasn’t a serious profession, she needed a real degree.
“Maybe I should try…”
“You absolutely should! Life is just beginning.”
The hairdressing courses were in an old building on the outskirts. Lara walked around outside for a long time, unable to make herself go in. What would young girls say about an older student?
“Are you here for us?” the administrator asked—a woman around twenty-five with brightly colored hair.
“Yes… I wanted to ask about the courses…”
“Come in! I’ll tell you everything.”
It turned out to be easier than Lara expected. Classes three times a week, hands-on practice on models, a diploma after four months.
“No age limit,” the woman smiled. “We’ve had sixty-year-olds study here.”
“And can you find work afterward?”
“Of course! Hairdressers are needed everywhere. Especially people with life experience. Clients trust you more.”
Lara signed up. The first lesson was scheduled for Monday. She walked home thinking: maybe she’d lost her mind. At her age—learning to cut people’s hair?
Anna Ivanovna supported the idea.
“Larochka, that’s wonderful! A creative profession. You’ll make people beautiful.”
“What if my hands aren’t right for it?”
“What do you mean, not right? You have golden hands. Look how beautifully you chop a salad—that’s art too.”
At the first lesson Lara was shy. A group of young girls chatted about trendy cuts and new techniques. She understood nothing.
“Let’s introduce ourselves!” announced the instructor, Sveta. “Tell us about yourself.”
“I’m Ksusha, nineteen. I want to open my own salon.”
“I’m Vika, twenty-two. I already work, but I don’t have a diploma.”
Then it was Lara’s turn.
“I’m Larisa. I’m… fifty-seven. I decided to change professions.”
The girls exchanged glances. Lara blushed. They probably thought she was an old woman who’d lost her mind.
But Sveta reacted normally.
“Excellent! Life experience is very important in our line of work. People don’t come to a hairdresser only for a haircut. They want to talk, to trust someone.”
The first weeks were difficult. Her hands wouldn’t obey. The scissors felt чужие—alien. The girls grasped everything instantly, while Lara struggled over every movement.
“Lar, don’t jerk like that,” Ksusha whispered. “Relax. Hair feels your tension.”
“Easy for you to say…”
“Imagine you’re making a salad. Cutting carefully, without rushing.”
The advice helped. Lara really pictured herself slicing vegetables. Her hands grew steadier.
A month later the first models arrived—real people with real hair. Lara got a woman around forty.
“Don’t worry,” the model said. “You can’t make it worse. My hair is already ruined.”
“I’ll try…”
Lara began cutting—slowly, carefully. Taking off millimeters, checking every strand. Sveta stood beside her, guiding her.
“Bolder! Don’t be afraid to make a mistake.”
“But what if I ruin it?”
“You won’t. You have a good sense of proportion.”
The result turned out decent. The model was pleased.
“You work so carefully! You can feel the care.”
Lara bloomed from the praise. It was working. It really was working!
At home Nadya looked through the photos of her work.
“Lar, you’re talented! Look how nice that is.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure! And what do the girls say?”
“They’re fine with me. Ksusha even became friends with me. She says I’m like a kind mom.”
“See? Age isn’t an obstacle.”
Anna Ivanovna followed her progress too.
“Larochka, could you do my hair? I haven’t been to a hairdresser in ages.”
“Of course! I can only do something simple for now.”
“Simple is all I need.”
Lara cut Anna Ivanovna’s hair at home—carefully, lovingly. The old woman looked ten years younger.
“My goodness, how beautiful! You’re a real master!”
“I’m still learning…”
“But the result is already there. You have a gift.”
At the courses Lara became one of the best students. Sveta praised her patience and attention to clients.
“Larisa, you should work with older women. You have a special touch.”
“But will a salon take me?”
“They absolutely will. I’ve already spoken to a few. Everyone’s interested.”
Lara couldn’t believe her luck. Could it really happen? Could you start a new career at fifty-seven?
Sometimes she thought of Viktor. What would he say if he saw her working? He probably wouldn’t believe his eyes.
Six months later Lara was working at a salon called “Elegant”—small, cozy, with regular clients. The owner, Marina, hired her right after the courses.
“I need a stylist for mature women. Young people go to young stylists, but older ladies want understanding.”
The clients loved Lara. She knew how to listen, she didn’t rush, she worked neatly. Within half a year she had her own regulars.
“Larochka, I only come to you,” one woman would say. “You understand what I need.”
“Thank you. I try.”
“And what about your personal life? You’re still young, still beautiful.”
Lara would smile. Personal life… not now. Work, new skills, plans for the future. No time to think about men.
On a Saturday morning a man walked into the salon. Lara was washing her tools and didn’t lift her head right away.
“Girls, do you cut men’s hair?” he asked.
“Of course!” her coworker Olya called back. “Sit with Larisa—she’s free.”
Lara turned around. Viktor. He stood in the doorway, staring at her, confused. She froze with scissors in her hand.
“Lar? Is that you?”
“Yes. It’s me.”
He looked around the salon, her workstation, the diploma on the wall.
“You… work here?”
“I do.”
“As a hairdresser?”
“Yes. Sit down if you need a haircut.”
Viktor lowered himself into the chair slowly, watching her in the mirror—her, and himself.
“How did you… where did you learn?”
“Courses. Four months.”
Lara draped the cape over him and turned on the clippers. Her hands didn’t tremble. Strange—she’d thought she’d fall apart when she saw him.
“And where do you live?”
“I rent a room.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
She cut in silence. Viktor was silent too, studying her face in the mirror. Lara had lost weight, tightened up. She’d dyed her hair and styled it nicely. She looked younger.
“Lar, maybe we could talk? Properly.”
“About what?”
“About… how you’re doing. I thought you disappeared completely.”
“I didn’t disappear. I’m living.”
She trimmed his temples—precise, professional—like she was cutting the hair of a stranger.
“And I… it’s hard for me alone.”
“You’ll find someone.”
“I don’t want anyone. I’m used to you.”
Lara turned off the clippers and brushed the hair from his neck.
“Vitya, it’s too late to think about that. You decided everything yourself.”
“Maybe I was wrong.”
“Maybe.”
She removed the cape and shook it out.
“Done. Four hundred rubles.”
Viktor took out his wallet. He searched for the money for a long time.
“Lar, I’m serious. Let’s try again.”
“Try what? You put me out on the street.”
“I was wrong. I was angry, jealous.”
“Jealous of what? Nadya’s kitchen?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like you didn’t love me.”
Lara took the money and printed the receipt.
“Vitya, I loved you for thirty years. I washed your clothes, cooked, waited for you after work. And you decided I was your enemy.”
“But I made a mistake!”
“You did. And in that time I understood something—I can live on my own. And I live just fine.”
She walked him to the door.
“All the best, Vitya. Come in if you need a haircut.”
Viktor left. Lara went back to her station and started disinfecting her tools.
“Lar, was that your ex?” Olya asked.
“Yes.”
“So how was it?”
“No way at all. Life goes on.”
That evening Lara walked home thinking about the meeting. Strange—there was no anger. No pity either. Just a stranger who had once been close.
Her phone kept buzzing with messages. Viktor was sending long texts about mistakes, forgiveness, a new life together. Lara read them and deleted them.
At home she looked in the mirror. Yes—she’d changed. Not only on the outside. Inside she was different too. Stronger. More confident. Needed by people.
On Monday she enrolled in a colorist course. She wanted to master dyeing. Marina promised her a raise for the new skill.
Life went on—without looking back, without regret. At fifty-seven, she finally understood: it’s never too late to start over
