Finally, Penelope held the hair iron in her hand and opened the tong section. She grabbed a small strand of Ahwin's hair and placed it carefully between the clamps.

Ahwin’s shoulders tensed, nervous that the hot magical device might accidentally burn his skin.@@novelbin@@

Penelope skillfully pressed the golden strands with the hair iron, twisting it gently. A smooth, natural curl appeared in the hair.

"Wow!" exclaimed Giselle in admiration.

Penelope felt her shoulders rise with pride. Even though the hair iron wasn’t the curling rod type she was used to but a flat style, she had still managed to create flawless curls. As the saying goes, a true artisan never blames their tools.

That’s right—she was an artisan.

Penelope’s journey with hair irons began in middle school in her previous life. Inspired by her mother’s routine, she had clumsily tried to imitate her at first, often ending in disaster. Over time, however, she grew more adept.

Through high school, college, and even her working years, curling her hair with a flat iron became a non-negotiable part of her morning routine.

‘In this world, no one can use this better than me,’ Penelope thought with strange pride as she worked on styling Ahwin’s hair.

"There, all done," she announced.

"…"

Ahwin, entranced by Penelope’s touch, belatedly looked at himself in the mirror. His expression froze in shock.

"What… what is this?!"

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