In this bizarre episode, Keisha walked out that door with her lace front laid like she was about to accept an award. The baby hairs were sculpted. Sculpted. She used a toothbrush, edge control, and prayers from three different denominations. Then she stepped outside.

One single step onto that porch and the humidity looked at her hairline like "oh, you thought." By the time she got to the car, her edges were no longer edges. They were suggestions. Vague memories of a boundary that once existed. Her lace front had lifted like it was ascending to heaven.

She tried to fix it in the grocery store parking lot with her phone camera and a prayer. The glue that promised "waterproof, sweat-proof, life-proof" looked at her and said "ma'am, I am not Jesus."

Then the man in the checkout line — the man with the audacity — said "your hair is pretty." She knew he saw that lace lifting like a window shade at sunrise. She knew her "baby hairs" had become "teenage hairs" trying to start their own independent nation on her forehead. She smiled with her teeth while her soul left through the back exit.

Some hair days are bad. Others are a five-alarm fire of false confidence with a side of humidity.

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