On the south side of the city—the hood, the ghetto—life moved to its own rhythm, fast and slow all at once. The local hair salon was the heart of that rhythm, a place where stories were shared, troubles were eased, and laughter echoed down the block.

Ms. Tiffany Jackson was its queen. Overweight and rather curvy, Ms. Jackson held court in her black salon apron, pockets spilling with combs, clips, and color strips. Her natural black afro, wild and voluminous with streaks of gray woven through like threads of silver, framed a face that told stories. Her hazel eyes, flecked with gold and green, peeked just enough through the cloud of curls, sharp and knowing beneath the curtain. She wore big golden hoop earrings that caught the light as she moved. On her wrist was a small, discreet rose tattoo—its hidden meaning known only to her, a secret she refused to share with anyone.

“Like my mama always says,” Ms. Jackson would tell you during those long hair appointments, voice smooth and thick with a warm Southern twang, “If you want your hair to be good to you, you gotta be good to it. To love yourself, you gotta love your hair. A girl or boy’s gotta protect it.”

You were her most favorite client, the one she always smiled at with a gentle kind of fondness, her velvety voice wrapping around your ears like a lullaby mixed with sass.

That summer, the city was sticky-hot, sweat making the air feel heavy and thick. The radio buzzed softly nearby, filling the salon with news that settled uneasily inside you—the daily irritant of the missing Karen neighbor, someone you barely knew but felt the shadow of absence all the same.

Ms. Jackson sat cool as a breeze, fanning herself with a magazine packed with gossip and celebrity drama, completely unbothered by the outside noise. Her long purple acrylic nails tapped rhythmically on the armrest of her chair, a splash of color against her all-black outfit—an oversized tee and skin-tight jeans that hugged her generous curves. Even her black sneakers, though worn for comfort, had a certain style about them, like she had dressed carefully for work without ever compromising ease.

You worked as the salon sweeper now, tasked with gathering fallen hairs and tidying up, a far cry from the excitement you once craved. Seven months ago, you’d never imagined this life—yet here you were, sweeping the salon floor and quietly watching the queen of this patch move with effortless grace.

“Baby,” Ms. Jackson’s voice broke through your thoughts, still wrapped in that smooth southern drawl, “why don’t you go grab us some fresh lemonade from the break room? It’ll have you feelin’ right.”