I part Bianca’s hair into thin sections, then run it through my middle and ring finger. “Girl, you haven’t been in here in months, and these ends are showing it,” I say, pulling out my scissors.

“I know, girl.”

I add, “You should really have your ends trimmed every eight weeks or so.”

She winces at the thought, like so many other chicks who come into my shop. But they realize I know my shit when it comes to hair. I’m not like some stylists who are “scissor happy.” If I tell you I’m going to trim your hair, that’s exactly what I do. One-quarter to a half-inch; that’s it. You will leave this chair with a trim, not a haircut, unless that’s what you specifically ask for.

“So when’s the big day?” I ask Bianca.

“We haven’t actually set a date, yet. But if Garrett had his way we’d be married—yesterday.”

I laugh. “He sounds like Jasper. Every time we talk, he’s asking”—I dip into a deep voice, mimicking him—“’when we doin’ this, yo?’”

She laughs. “Speaking of that fiiiine-ass man of yours,” Bianca says, “he should be coming home soon, right?”

Everyone knows Jasper’s locked up, so it’s no secret that I’ve been more or less a prisoner’s wife for the last four years. I nod. “Girrrrl, not soon enough. This shit has been hectic.”

“I’m sure it has,” she says, lowering her voice. “Personally, I don’t know how you’ve done it. Lord knows I don’t think I could have been as devoted and committed as you’ve been.”

“Chile, it requires a whole lot of patience and a drawer full of double-A batteries.”

She chuckles. “Good thing it’s almost over.”

“You got that right.”

Shuwanda butts in. “Girlfriend’s good ’cause I couldn’t do it either. Melvin knows if his ass gets knocked, someone else is gonna eventually be taking his spot. This kitty needs to be stroked every two to three days; otherwise it starts clawin’ my insides out. So ain’t no way I’d ever be able to go four years, hell four weeks, without sex.”