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In the small town of Jefferson City, Missouri, there lived a young lad named James Hayden Granger, affectionately known as Jamie. The year was 2021, and Jamie was exactly six years old, standing at a height of 3 feet 8 inches and weighing a lightweight 50 pounds. Born on November 2, 2015, Jamie sported a mop of curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes that sparkled with curiosity and innocence. Jamie's mother, Rebecca Williams, was a radiant young woman of 26 years, born on August 19, 1995. Standing 5 feet and 7 inches tall with a weight of 140 pounds, Rebecca's striking auburn hair was typically tied in a casual ponytail and her hazel green eyes were full of love for her son. Jamie's father, Nicholas Granger, had not been in their life for quite some time now. Nicholas was only 29, born on May 7, 1992. He was 6 feet 1 inch tall, weighing 180 pounds, with straight brown hair and earthy brown eyes. There was an aunt in Jamie's life, Alexandra Williams, Rebecca's younger sister, who was 23 years old and born on September 9, 1998. Slightly taller than Rebecca at 5 feet and 9 inches, she weighed 155 pounds. She loved to keep her chestnut brown hair in a sleek bob and her striking grey eyes were always teasing. There was also Uncle Nicky, Rebecca's older brother, who was quite busy with work. Born on March 20, 1993, he stood 5 feet and 11 inches tall and weighed 175 pounds with wavy black hair and piercing blue eyes. The family matriarch, Martha Williams, who was 56 years old, born on February 17, 1965, was a petite woman of 5 feet and 4 inches and weighed 165 pounds with silver hair framing her caring brown eyes. One fine day, Jamie decided to go to a salon alone for his first haircut and upon entering, the exotic fragrance of shampoo and conditioner enveloped him. Elena Lukov, an authentically Russian woman, was the only stylist in the salon that day. At 58, born on February 15, 1963, she was two years older than Grandma Martha. Elena was slightly shorter than Martha, standing 5 feet 2 inches tall and weighing a healthy 155 pounds. Her hair was a captivating silver-grey, cut in a traditional Russian style, and her clear blue eyes were filled with experience. She was dressed in a Russian-style blazer, a classy blouse, ankle-cut pants, and platform sandals that boosted her height, a wedding ring encircling her ring finger. Her hands were adorned by polished nails, and multiple bracelets, elegant necklaces, and other pieces of jewelry accessorized her ensemble. "Pleash, vait for me here, I vill get zomthing for your hair cut shweetie," Elena told Jamie in her abruptly halted, accent-graced English, leaving Jamie alone as she hastily retreated into the back room. Young Jamie found himself in a vicinity that felt odd but intriguing. Curiosity prodding him, Jamie happened to spot Elena's bag. It was an age-worn brown leather tote, crammed with a brush, a comb, a variety of hair clips and bands, and a well-equipped makeup kit. Other miscellaneous items such as a mirror, some Russian snacks, a thick Russian-English dictionary, and a photo of a young man in military uniform lying within the bag. Feeling a sudden urgency, he blurted out, "I gotta go potty!" Jamie ventured down a hallway, his eyes wandering about the vivid colors on the walls, and tripped on something. His balance compromised, he looked down, realizing it were Elena's chunky platform sandals that had caused the fall, which were now on his feet. In the confusion, Jamie's clothing vanished. The young boy experienced a sudden transformation as his feet morphed into Elena's, perfectly manicured matching the professional’s. "N-n-no! I's gonna m-miss mommy and G-gamma!" He lisped, terrified, "I don’t wanna be a icky g-g-guh-guh-gi-girl! Suddenly, he felt a tingle of maturity. It was like an internal click, and before he could think, it dawned on him that he was now living the life of Elena Lukov, born in 1963. He gasped. He was, in fact, older than his grandmother. Embracing the fear, Jamie began singing a comforting lullaby his mother always sang to him when he was upset. As his voice deepened and his accent turned Russian, the song morphed. "Hush little baby, don't say a word," turned into "Utro vechera mudrenee," a traditional Russian lullaby, fully translated as - "The morning is wiser than the evening." The heartwarming American lullaby had morphed half-way to the reassuring Russian anthem that resonated through the salon. He could feel a strange sense of calm serenading him. Jamie's memories blurred, the song still lingering on his lips. His body matured into that of Elena's, the signature Russian outfit replacing his clothes. Nail polish formed on his nails, exactly replicating Elena's. His voice had transitioned into a Russian dialect, and Jamie's memories began to shift. His mind was compiling a new anthology of memories–of Elena’s life. He morphed completely into the Russian stylist, now adorned with her outfit but missing the jewelry and wedding ring. Elena watched her reflection, singing the last few notes of the Russian lullaby before she inspected the outfit she considered her own since time immemorial. The blazer felt right, the blouse and the ankle-cut pants fit her perfectly, and her platform sandals were within reach. She walked towards her scattered jewelry, reaching out to gather them. Elena started with fastening the necklace around her neck, then picked up the matching earrings and finally placed the bracelets on her wrists. Then came her wedding ring, adorning her ring finger on her left hand. Each piece brought back a memory, a smile on her face as she relished her past. Elena then hunkered down to pick up her platform sandals. She moved the chair a bit and eased herself down onto it. Setting down the sandals, she bent forward and proceeded to slip the right one on first, its chunky hill sliding right under her foot. Then came the left one, which she had slightly more trouble with, but it slid into place with a satisfying snugness, providing her with the much-desired height. With her outfit put together meticulously, Elena adjusted her blouse and her pants, preening herself before the mirror. She had always taken pride in her appearance, and this instance was no different. Her fingers brushed her hair loose, falling onto her shoulders in a soft cascade as she lifted her head high, her hazel eyes reflecting her determination and resilience. Taking a moment to appreciate herself, she beamed at her reflection before proceeding to waltz around her salon. After all, she was Elena Lukov, a Russian stylist who knew the language of beauty and elegance. Elena stumbled, momentarily losing her platform sandals, but hurriedly bent down to put them back on. Securing the straps of the platform sandals tighter around her ankles, she made sure to adjust them to her comfort. She gave one last look at the mirror, adjusted her sandal strap again, smiling at how the chunky heels made her look taller. She walked around the salon feel confident, stumbling, and losing her platform sandals once again. Still, she was quick to recover and fasten them securely once again. Elena took note of the method this time. She had to make sure she put the strap into the buckle and then pulled it until it was tight but not uncomfortable. Then she inserted the excess strap into the metal loop on the side of the sandal to keep it from hanging out. This ensured the sandals fit her feet nicely and would not come off unless she wanted them to do so. But then, she found herself looking around the salon, puzzled. "Vhat vas I doing?" she blurted out in halting English, confusion encapsulating her. "I am olda zhan mosht people, but I shtill vork hard!" her voice echoed throughout the salon. Glancing at her bag, Elena strutted towards it, rummaging through the disarray to discover an old, faded photograph of her late husband in his military uniform from their younger days. "I mish you, my love," she whispered, placing a delicate kiss on the picture before putting it back safely. Continuing with her work, she tidied up her salon, each step precise and measured, her sandals adding a melodious thud every time they hit the ground. As Elena continued to sweep the floor, she stomped her foot once, then the other, laughing at the way her beloved platforms made her tomboyishly taller. "Mosht Russian women are short, but zhis gives me height," she cackled, her Russian accent rippling through the laughter. After cleaning and organizing her salon, Elena gazed at her reflection once more, adjusting her blouse neatly before sitting down. Safely ensconced in her salon, Elena sighed, day well spent.