In addition to the worried mother of a Denver-based hairstylist, who shared photos of her missing daughter before she disappeared, others are also searching for her.
The loved ones of a 34-year-old Denver hairstylist named Jax Gratton are in search of her after she went missing. According to the Denver Police Department (DPD), Gratton has not been seen in nearly two weeks after leaving her apartment near the 4200 block of E. Iliff Avenue around 10 p.m. on April 15, 2025.
As confirmed by loved ones, Gratton had planned to step out briefly the night she vanished, telling her roommate she would be gone for only a few hours. But that quick outing spiraled into a troubling ordeal when Gratton failed to return home.
Her mother, Cherilynne Gratton-Camis, grew uneasy after several days of no contact, especially on Easter Sunday. This marked the first ominous break in a lifetime pattern of unwavering connection.
“Jax calls me when great things happen and when bad things happen, and every single holiday. She has never missed a holiday,” Gratton-Camis shared.
That particular evening — April 15 — a photo taken from a camera inside Gratton’s apartment captured her just before she walked out the door. No one knew the details of her outing. “It’s just, it’s absolutely a mystery,” her mother said. “No one knows who she was meeting, who picked her up.”
For those who know her well, Gratton’s sudden disappearance doesn’t align with her usual behavior. Brandy Carey, a close friend, emphasized how deeply concerning the situation is, citing how out of character it is for Gratton to leave behind her beloved cat, Madam Francesca, without making arrangements.
“Her not taking her medication, not taking her makeup, but also the fact that she missed several appointments with clients,” adds to the growing concern, Carey told Denver7.
“We just want her to come home. That’s what we just want: Her home, happy, healthy,” stated Carey. In the wake of her vanishing, loved ones have rallied online and on foot, sharing her images, her story, and their hopes.
Gratton’s family and friends are also urging the community to alert the police if they have any tips to report, no matter how big or small.
Should anyone have any information concerning Gratton’s whereabouts, they can contact Denver Crime Stoppers at 720-913-2000. Tipsters also have the option to remain anonymous and could earn a reward of up to $2,000.
Gratton’s loved ones have also expressed gratitude for the support civilians have shown for the hairstylist and the disappearance case.
“She’s very caring. She cares about the people that she comes in contact with, and that doesn’t matter if she’s known you forever or she’s just known you in this moment,” expressed Carey.
Yet, amid the activity and public support, a single, haunting plea from Gratton-Camis continues to echo, “I’m scared for her safety. I just want proof of life.”
In an effort to amplify the search, a Facebook group titled “Find Jax Gratton Denver” has become a central hub for updates and appeals from loved ones. Among the most poignant posts came directly from Gratton’s mother, who shared a set of stills showing her daughter in the final moments before she disappeared.
Captured by an indoor surveillance camera, the images reveal Gratton in a patterned jacket, striped shirt, and loose-fitting pants, holding two bags as she steps toward the door.
The accompanying message from Gratton-Camis reflected a mother’s anguish and suspicion. Gratton’s mom expressed that the photos do not appear to indicate that her daughter was headed out on a date.
She also referenced the fact that Gratton left behind important personal effects. Additionally, Gratton-Camis explained her decision to delay adding certain individuals to the group and hinted at a larger conversation with the detective on the case, saying, “Will share at a later date cause [sic] I think it might be important.”
Her words, layered with grief and urgency, also revealed the emotional toll the search has taken. “I have a lot of work to do. Because I was asking for Jane Does and if course did not think they would list her as male. My love for you all is so strong [sic],” concluded Gratton’s mom.
In a separate post to the Facebook group, Princess Sullivan shared a visual collage of Gratton’s tattoos in hopes that someone might recognize her.
The post features close-up shots of several distinct designs inked across Gratton’s arms, shoulders, and chest, including words, geometric lines, and illustrative pieces.
It is a simple yet powerful contribution to the growing community effort — another way to keep Gratton’s image alive in the public eye, and perhaps spark a lead that could bring her home.
Among the many voices joining the search is that of Theresa Becker, a client of the hairstylist who turned to the group after discovering Gratton had gone missing.
Becker shared that she last heard from Gratton on April 15, the same day she vanished. It was also the day they confirmed an upcoming appointment.
When Gratton never showed up on April 18, worry quickly set in. “She means so much more to me than just gorgeous hair,” Becker wrote.
“We talked about so much. We connected on experiences few [sic] can relate to. She helped me feel a little more at home in the world.” Eager to support the search, Becker expressed her intent to join volunteers canvassing near Washington Park.
Outside of the dedicated search group, Gratton’s mother has also taken to her own Facebook page to raise awareness. In a deeply personal post, she pleaded for anyone who may have seen or heard from Gratton after April 11 to come forward.
Underneath her message, she shared a collage of photos capturing her daughter in different moments — posing with sun-kissed hair against a tropical backdrop, smiling with light curls in a salon mirror, and posing with her hair dyed a soft reddish tone.
As the days stretch, those closest to Gratton continue to reflect on the many ways she has left her mark.
Studio owner Dylan Scholinski, a longtime friend, recently shared a moving message that spans decades of their connection, from the vibrant days of her youth to the creative spirit she carried into adulthood.
His message echoed the same sentiment resonating across every post and every plea: hope. While the uncertainty weighs heavily, the community surrounding Gratton refuses to give up, urging others to keep sharing, keep searching, and above all, to believe that she can be found.
For those who have known her in fleeting moments or lifelong bonds, the wish remains the same — that this chapter ends with Gratton safely home.
My 16-Year-Old Son Went to Stay with His Grandmother for the Summer – One Day, I Got a Call from Her
When my 16-year-old son offered to spend the summer taking care of his disabled grandmother, I thought he’d finally turned a corner. But one night, a terrifying call from my mother shattered that hope.
“Please, come save me from him!” my mother’s voice whispered through the phone, barely a breath.
A scared elderly woman talking on her phone | Source: Midjourney
Her words were sharp with fear, a tone I’d never heard from her. My stomach knotted. Before I could respond, the line went dead.
I stared at my phone, disbelief mixing with shock. My strong, fiercely independent mother was scared. And I knew exactly who “him” was.
An angry woman | Source: Pexels
My son had always been a handful, but lately, he’d crossed new lines. At sixteen, he was testing every boundary he could find. Rebellious, headstrong, a walking storm of attitude and defiance.
I remembered him coming home from school, slinging his backpack down with a certain grin that I didn’t recognize. “I was thinking about going to Grandma’s this summer,” he’d said. “I mean, you’re always saying she could use more company. I could keep an eye on her.”
A smiling teenager | Source: Pexels
My first reaction was surprise and a little pride. Maybe he was turning over a new leaf, becoming responsible. But looking back now, as I sped down the darkening highway, his words nagged at me in a way they hadn’t before.
I’d blinked, surprised. “You… want to go stay with Grandma? You usually can’t wait to get out of there.”
A shocked woman | Source: Pexels
“I’ll help take care of her,” he’d said. “You could even let the caregiver go, Mom. Save some money, you know?”
The more I drove, the more pieces of our recent conversations slipped into place in my mind, forming a picture I didn’t like.
“People change,” he’d shrugged with a strange smile. Then he looked up at me with a half-smile. “I mean, I’m almost a man now, right?”
A smiling teenage boy with a phone | Source: Pexels
I’d brushed it off then, thinking maybe he was finally growing up. But now, that smile felt… off. Not warm or genuine, but like he was playing a part.
As I drove, I remembered other details, things I’d dismissed at the time. A week into his stay, I’d called, wanting to check on my mother directly. He’d answered, cheerful but too fast, like he was steering the call. “Hey, Mom! Grandma’s asleep. She said she’s too tired to talk tonight, but I’ll tell her you called.”
A concerned woman on her phone | Source: Freepik
Why didn’t I push harder?
My mind raced back to how it all began. It had been just the two of us since his father left when he was two. I’d tried to give him what he needed to stay grounded. But since he hit his teenage years, the small cracks had started widening.
An angry teenage boy | Source: Freepik
The only person who seemed to get through to him now and then was my mother. She had a way of disarming him, though even she admitted he was “testing her patience.”
I dialed my mother’s number again, willing her to pick up. My thumb tapped the screen anxiously, but still, nothing.
The sky darkened as the houses became sparse, her rural neighborhood just up ahead. With every mile, my mind replayed his too-smooth excuses, his charming act.
A woman on her phone in her car | Source: Freepik
As I pulled up to my mother’s house, a chill ran through me. Her lawn, once so tidy, was now overgrown, weeds tangling around the porch steps. The shutters had peeling paint, and the lights were off, as though no one had been home in weeks.
I stepped out of the car, feeling disbelief twisting into a sick anger. Beer bottles and crushed soda cans littered the porch. I could even smell cigarette smoke drifting out through the open window.
A littered porch | Source: Midjourney
My hands shook as I reached for the door, pushing it open.
And there, right in front of me, was chaos.
Strangers filled the living room laughing, drinking, shouting over the music. Half of them looked old enough to be college kids, others barely looked out of high school. My heart twisted, a mixture of fury and heartache flooding through me.
A furious woman | Source: Pexels
“Where is he?” I whispered, scanning the crowd, disbelief giving way to a focused rage. I shouldered through people, calling his name. “Excuse me! Move!”
A girl sprawled on the couch glanced up at me, blinking lazily. “Hey, lady, chill out. We’re just having fun,” she slurred, waving a bottle in my direction.
“Where’s my mother?” I snapped, barely able to hold back the edge in my voice.
A shouting woman | Source: Pexels
The girl just shrugged, unconcerned. “Dunno. Haven’t seen any old lady here.”
Ignoring her, I continued through the packed room, shouting my son’s name over the blaring music. I looked from face to face, my heart pounding faster with every step. Every second that passed made the house feel more like a stranger’s, more like a place my mother would never allow, let alone live in.
Teenagers partying | Source: Pexels
“Mom!” I called, my voice desperate as I reached the end of the hall, near her bedroom door. It was closed, the handle faintly scratched, as though it’d been opened and closed a hundred times in the last hour alone.
I knocked hard, heart racing. “Mom? Are you in there? It’s me!”
A weak, trembling voice replied, barely audible over the noise. “I’m here. Please—just get me out.”
A woman knocking frantically into the closed door | Source: Midjourney
I felt a wave of relief and horror as I fumbled with the handle and threw the door open. There she was, sitting on the bed, her face pale and drawn, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Her hair was mussed, and I could see dark circles under her eyes.
“Oh, Mom…” I crossed the room in a heartbeat, falling to my knees beside her and wrapping my arms around her.
An elderly woman covering her ears | Source: Freepik
Her hand, frail but steady, clutched mine. “He started with just a few friends,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “But when I told him to stop, he got angry. He… he said I was just getting in the way.” Her voice wavered. “He started locking me in here. Said I was… ruining his fun.”
A sickening wave of anger surged through me. I’d been blind, foolish enough to believe my son’s promise to “help out.” I took a shaky breath, stroking her hand. “I’m going to fix this, Mom. I swear.”
An elderly woman in her bedroom | Source: Freepik
She nodded, gripping my hand, her own fingers cold and trembling. “You have to.”
I walked back to the living room, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. And there was my son, leaning against the wall, laughing with a group of older kids.
When he looked up and saw me, his face went pale.
“Mom? What… what are you doing here?”
A shocked teenage boy | Source: Freepik
“What am I doing here?” I echoed, my voice steady with a calm I didn’t feel. “What are you doing here? Look around! Look at what you’ve done to your grandmother’s home!”
He shrugged, trying to play it cool, but I saw his mask slipping. “It’s just a party. You don’t have to freak out.”
“Get everyone out of here. Now.” My voice was steel, and this time, it cut through the noise. The whole room seemed to freeze. “I’m calling the police if this house isn’t empty in the next two minutes.”
A furious woman | Source: Freepik
One by one, the partiers shuffled out, murmuring and stumbling toward the door. The house cleared out, leaving only broken furniture, empty bottles, and my son, who now stood alone in the wreckage he’d made.
When the last guest was gone, I turned to him. “I trusted you. Your grandmother trusted you. And this is how you repay her? This is what you thought ‘helping’ looked like?”
A woman confronting her son | Source: Midjourney
He shrugged, a defensive sneer twisting his face. “She didn’t need the space. You’re always on my case, Mom. I just wanted some freedom!”
“Freedom?” My voice shook with disbelief. “You’re going to learn what responsibility is.” I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of each word. “You’re going to a summer camp with strict rules, and I’m selling your electronics, everything valuable, to pay for the damage. You don’t get a single ‘freedom’ until you earn it.”
An angry woman in her living room | Source: Midjourney
“What?” His bravado faltered, fear flickering in his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I am,” I said, voice colder than I’d ever heard it. “And if you don’t change, you’re out of the house when you turn eighteen. I’m done with excuses.”
The next day, I sent him off to camp. His protests, his anger all faded as the summer passed, and for the first time, he was forced to face the consequences.
A teenage boy in a camp | Source: Pexels
As I repaired my mother’s house that summer, I felt the pieces of our family begin to mend. Bit by bit, room by room, I cleared the broken glass, patched up the walls, and held on to hope that my son would come home a different person.
After that summer, I saw my son start to change. He grew quieter, steadier, spending evenings studying instead of disappearing with friends.
A boy doing his homework | Source: Pexels
Small acts like helping around the house, apologizing without being prompted became routine. Each day, he seemed more aware, more respectful, like he was finally becoming the man I’d hoped for.
Two years later, I watched him walk up my mother’s steps again, head bowed. He was a successful gentleman now, about to graduate school with honors and enroll in a nice college. In his hand was a bouquet, his gaze sincere and soft in a way I’d never seen.
A young man with flowers | Source: Freepik
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” he said, his voice thick with regret. I held my breath, watching as the boy I’d fought to raise offered her a piece of his heart.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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