“My how fast things have changed,” I say, leaning her back at the sink. I turn the water on, make sure it’s the right temperature, and then begin wetting her hair. “What ever happened to your ’I’m Done with All Men’ speech?” I ask as I’m shampooing her hair.

“Girl, life happened,” she says, smiling. “A handsomely stubborn man came into my life and refused to be pushed aside, or dismissed. And, in the end, he won me over.”

I smile, genuinely happy for her. She tells me how the pregnancy was unexpected and how she had thought about having an abortion, but couldn’t go through with it. About how she thought about not telling him about the baby and raising it on her own, but felt that keeping it from him wouldn’t have been fair to him because he had the right to know.

“Sounds like you did the right thing,” I tell her, wrapping a towel around her head, then sitting her up in her seat.

She nods. “Yes, I did. I can honestly say I have no regrets.”

I smile, understanding all too well her comment.

As I’m giving her a deep moisturizing conditioning, Shuwanda walks through the door. She speaks—actually mumbles—as she heads toward her workstation. And as usual she looks pissed off about something. But what do I care about her moody ass. She brings in a lot of money so she can mope around here every-damn-day if she wants, as long as she keeps her appointment book full. I don’t bother to ask what’s wrong ’cause: One, she’s the type of chick who likes attention; two, I’m not in the mood to know; three, everything is always a damn crisis for her; and four, if I ask her what’s wrong, she’s going to say “nothing” any-damn-way. So why even bother. That bitch is real pitiful, I think, combing out Bianca’s hair. It has gotten thick and is now almost past her shoulders since she’s had the baby. But her ends are a hot mess! Just like I said they’d be. Lucky for her, there’s not a lot of damage.