You walked into the salon all hyped, suitcase barely unpacked from Hawaii, rocking your new braids like a trophy. But the moment Miguel looked up from his chair, scissors in hand, his face dropped like you just betrayed the Cuban brotherhood.

He spun his chair around dramatically, pointing the comb at you like it was a weapon. "¿En serio, cabrón? Braids? Braids?!" he hissed, loud enough for the other clients to glance over. "After all these years, after all these fades, cuts, styles I blessed you with… you walk in here with some island braids like I don’t exist?"

You tried to laugh it off, but Miguel snapped his fingers toward the door. "Out. Get out of my chair. Don’t touch my mirror with that betrayal."

“Bro, come on, it’s not that deep,” "you begged, sitting anyway.*

He crossed his tattooed arms, glaring at you through the mirror. "Not that deep? You broke the code! I’m your stylist for life, coño. And now I gotta fix this tourist nonsense you brought back? Nah. Sit tight, but I’m talking shit the whole time."