Sorell parked her car in the small street next to the store. She wasn't hiding, but she didn't want to catch anyone's attention. In the area, she was just another black woman.

The lack of attention she reeled in as she entered the hair shop attested that.

Inside, the last customers bought their Cantu products, marly crochet braids, and Brazilian hair wefts.

Sorell sought something different; a product that would free her from the woven chapeaux, aka wigs. The woman spent all her lunch break clicking on Youtube videos for tips.

She was at a hundred below zero. Unlike many, Sorell didn't even have the luxury of choice. There weren't enough hair follicles on her scalp for her to even conceive the idea of getting a sew-in. Her head was desert of almost shining baldness with a cactus stump of hair here and there, not even a proper Brussels sprout or cauliflower for a flat twist.

Who would think a girl with thick high-density hair like Sorell that shrunk to her shoulders when wet would take a walk on the bald side.

Unfortunately, it was Sorell's life, the teen who already had to deal with her weight, parents split, found herself losing her hair for no apparent reason she thought at the time.

The diagnosis stress, anxiety, well-being issues caused alopecia. At the time, the doctors were optimistic. All believed Sorell's hair would grow back after the teen years of mental turmoil.

None foresaw other dilemmas would come and paste themselves to Sorell's grievance scroll.

The overachiever panicked over exams; after that hoop, it was getting a job as a news anchor that came to tickle the woman's nerves. Finally, drastic diets where Sorell starved herself to the limit as she hoped to shred the cocoon camouflaging the butterfly she wished to become.

Of course, there had to be a cherry to crown her troubles. The critics on social media mowed her scalp daily and made sure the soil remained bare. No, there were too many obstacles sitting on Sorell's head for her hair to want to come back.

As she stood in the aisle, Sorell sought a specific castor oil brand known to achieve miracles.

As usual, Ayush approached her; Sorell was the store's best customer. All he needed to do was play his sales approach like a snake charmer to have the woman spilling her euros over the word growth.

In the meantime, Ravan arrived, "Paul, come and help me with the delivery."

"Why did it take so long?"

"The borders are charging crazy amounts with the Brexit."

Paul called two other sales assistants, and Ravan went to the tills.

Like many Indian families living in France, Ravan's family excelled in commerce; thus, the Chakrabaratis had many business ventures. After his father's stroke, the youngest of the  Chakarabarati siblings returned to take care of his father's hair product stores.

Ravan dealt with suppliers and made sure the shipments came in on time.

In partnership with FRO POUSS trending manufacturers, the former generic Cheveux Pour Tous [hair four all] now had a new name and uniform store layouts. Clean and professional, the Chakrabarti made mad money thanks to YouTubers and influencers using products one could only find in their stores which shipped the imports.

Sorell went to the till with the complete set of products, Ayush advised. The woman lowered her cap, not wanting to look at the other man who validated the shipment's reception.

All one could see were her lips and nose tip, but for the man next to Ayush, it was more than enough.

"Sorell."

The woman feigned to ignore.

"Sorell knㅡ."

The woman's heart shot up like a rocket.

How?

Why?

It didn't matter. All Sorell knew was she needed to exit fast.

"How much?"

"Eighty-five euros and seventy cents."

Sorell placed ninety euros on the counter, "keep the change."

Ravan left the counter, and Sorell found herself facing the man who stood in the front of the store's entrance.

"Sorell, are you ignoring me? Don't you remember Ravan? We went to primary and high school together. I datedㅡ."

How could she forget? The man's voice, now a few tones deeper, still echoed in her sweetest dreams.

Sorell sighed, "I know who you dated. Can I please leave the store?"

Ravan stepped aside but followed Sorell in her steps, "gosh, I'm so glad to see a familiar face. How have you been? You look fantastic. We should catch up sometimesㅡ."

Sorell stopped; she now had a full view of the man. Same beautiful jet black hair, beautiful almond-shaped eyes, and those lips, the woman closed her eyes a second to focus, "Ravan, I don't know where you've been, but you don't seem aware. I don't want to catch up and reminisce on high school days you lived like a High School Musical episode and that I survived as Carrie remake."

"What?"

Ravan was perplexed. As far as he could remember, the time spent in high school was fun. He played basketball and dated Petra, the most popular girl. Sorell was Petra's best friend, always present with all the other friends Ravan had. He saw nothing that would make the woman flee him as a cross to a vampire.

"Stop following me. Otherwise, I'll call the police."

"Sorell, come on. You'll call the police on me?" The man said and pointed to himself.

"Don't follow me," the woman strutted away, leaving Ravan stranded on the pavement.

"Dude, you are crazy," Ayush said when Ravan returned to the store.

"What? It's Sorell; we went to school together. We're buddies."

Ayush exchanged stares with Paul and the other staff members.

"Ravan," Ayush chuckled, "stop lying."

"I'm not lying, ask Anthony."

"Man, you're telling us you went to school with channel 16 morning news anchor Sorell Knechi the first black woman in french history to reach the position."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"He doesn't know, Ayush."

Of course, Ravan didn't. The man finished his studies at Birbeck college in England. He then followed up with two Erasmus programs in Spain and Canada before working abroad.

The man was a thousand light-years away from imagining who and what Sorell Knechi had become.

"She's famous," Ayush said.

"She's a bitch," Paul added.

Ravan frowned.

"Boy, that woman is vain and cranky like a woman without a dose. She needs a good fuck."

"Paul."

"What? The woman treats us like minions with her; keep the change. Always coming here with her cap and her trench collar turned up like we give a fuck. If she is so rich and ashamed to shop here, why don't in go in the store's in the lavish Louvre area where she lives."

It surprised Ravan to think his high school friend was wealthy enough to live in such a neighborhood.

Ravan found himself smiling with pride. Sorell kept her promise and became someone.

"How often does she come here?"

"It depends if a YouTuber does a video for a new product, you can be sure she's here in the next twenty-four hours."

Paul grimaced, "the woman has no hair, I tell you."

"Nah, Sorell has thick and long healthy 4c hair," Ravan said in the woman's defense.

Yes, these men knew their hair strands, Indian, Mongolian, Brazilian, you name it, they knew all the textures imaginable and the actual effects of the products they sold.

Even Ravan, who was away for quite some time, still had the lessons in mind.

The sales assistants exchanged glances before Ayush said, "if you say so. You can catch her on C16 if you want every morning from 6 AM."