I sit on the couch, tucked in my usual corner, ready to escape to my room as another Friday night party starts to swell with people and noise.
“Hey, Charlotte,” says Keysha, Brax’s new girlfriend.
She’s stunning. Black hair in soft waves, dark chocolate skin, a heart-shaped face, and the kind of hourglass figure I’ve always dreamt about.
“Hey,” I mumble.
“Why do you always look so sad?”
I shrug. Numb. “Because I’m lonely. Weird. Ugly.”
Her eyes widen. “Damn, girl. You’re too hard on yourself. You’re pretty too.”
I lift my shirt and pinch my pudge. “I’m a pig. I squeal too, even when I don’t want to. And my hair...” I rip the ties from my messy pom-poms. A wild, frizzy blond mane bursts free.
She tries not to smile.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I mutter. “You’re gorgeous. Your body, your makeup, your hair...”
Keysha snorts. “Girl, you think this isnatural?” She holds out a glossy lock. “This isnotmy hair.”
“What? You iron it or something?”
She laughs, full and loud. “It’s a wig. Or weave. Or extensions. Whatever I feel like. You can have hair like this too.”
“I can?” I blink, stunned.
She shifts closer, taking a chunk of my wild hair between her fingers. “Mmm. This is some of the craziest white-girl hair I’ve ever seen. Texture overload.” She smirks. “But I can work with anything. Want a weave? A soft fro? Buzz and dye it pink? Options, baby.”
I just stare at her, mouth parted.
“No one’s ever done your hair before?”
I shake my head.
She exhales. “Then it’s time. No way Brax’s little sister is walking around with that frown. Not on my watch.”
I nod eagerly. “Anything.Please!”
And just like that, she’s gone. Then back. Soon I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the couch, nestled between her knees as she works.
Combing. Parting. Tugging. Braiding.
At a party!
People glance over, watching her work like it’s a show.
“What color you want?” she asks, opening a box full of hair, all neatly sealed in plastic sleeves.
I pick out a long, straight black one. “Like Meghan. Can you cut it short? In a bob?”
She recoils. “Black? Withyourcomplexion? No way. You need warm tones. Honey blondes, caramels, reds.”
I bite my lip. “Surprise me.”
She grins and pulls out something golden.
One braid at a time, she sews the wefts to my scalp, the needle threading between the rows like magic. Compliments start rolling in before she’s even done.
