Packing Day at The Doll Hair Studio & Happy Ever After Beauty Headquarters, Atlanta, GA

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“Bria—Bitch,” her other closest friend, Chloe, dragged out her new favorite word, B-i-t-c-h, in a long drawl.

Sabra bristled at hearing the hated word. Her period-induced headache competed with the gnawing ache at the base of her back. Just great. Cramps, a headache, and Chloe on moving day was a prison sentence no one deserved. At least she’d have tomorrow to hole up in bed when the red tide of her heavy cycle took over her life for the next few days.

Sabra scowled as the other woman repeated the word—this time managing to turn Bitch into three syllables.

She didn’t care that the word had become common in how it was used in casual everyday conversation. Call her a prude, but never a Bitch. In her estimate, calling anyone a Bitch was rude, not cute or endearing.

“You know I don’t like that word.”

Chloe kept going as if she hadn’t said anything. “I can’t with you,” as she looked around the sea of sparkly child-sized items that made up Sabra’s business.

“You can’t what?” Sabra gave in and asked.

She’d failed in her quest. Sabra decided earlier to not fall into a continuous stream of questions to understand what Chloe meant with her colorful word choices.

Chloe’s profession demanded she understood her clients, their culture, and turns of phrases. The Drag culture side of Chloe’s clients was renown as purveyors of the hottest sayings and trends, but Sabra didn’t have the bandwidth to try to keep up with Chloe’s barrage of it today.

“You know what I mean. Quit acting like a brand-new top bitch and answer that thing.”

“Chloe, oh my god—what does that even mean?” Sabra couldn’t spare the brain cells to make out her friend’s latest sayings or meanings. Daylight was burning too fast for unnecessary words or detours.

Tinkling bells echoed through the open-concept studio. The expensive digital life manager known as her cellphone had rung like crazy all day. These incessant intrusions knocked the chance of a good mood into a distant possibility. Would the harassment ever stop?

The ringtone reminded Sabra of happy children running across an Austrian hilltop in a musical. She’d make sure to change it as soon as she got up.

“It means you’re being obnoxious and sidditty.”

“How so? I’m busy.”

“By acting like you’re too good to answer the phone. You still have to work like everyone else. Stop pretending you’re above it all. It’s okay to change your mind.”

“Thank you. I’ve got my very own bootleg Iyanla, Fix My Life.”

“Bria, I still say you’re in denial. You should at least try to make it work. You should ride the storm out.”

“I’m not being an ingrate. I’m just tired and ready to move on is all.”

“But you’re so good at what you do. Nah, Bitch, don’t let them win.”

“Too late,” was all Sabra was willing to say further about the matter.

From here on, she’d work with adults who didn’t have angry, competitive, crown-addicted mothers intent on destroying her life. There was too much work to be done to waste time answering calls that would fuel the momentum of falling into unbearable depression.

Ring, ring… ring, ring.

“I really can’t with you—answer that damn phone!”

“No, that’s the business ringtone, and I told you I’m no longer in business.”

Sabra continued to pack the box with the closest items. There was not much rhyme or reason to her strategy except to get out of here before tomorrow morning when the movers would arrive.

Known to her best friends and associates as Bria, Sabra Patterson had become known as the Doll Hair Whisperer and top children’s hair stylist by the pageant industry. There wasn’t a child’s head of hair yet that she couldn’t tame and mold into an elegant and poised version of the child’s everyday self. That is until all hell broke loose three months ago.

Sabra banished the thought of that damned Melanie Peele and her pack of hyenas back into the dark recesses of her mind to focus on the now.

Chloe’s voice broke through the memories to say, “Bitch, answer your phone. It might be a potential client.”

Sabra’s reply was lightning fast and cynical as hell. “Or, it could be another reporter, law firm, or indignant Momager calling to harass me. Like I said, I’m not in business anymore.”

“You’re really giving up, just like that? You know that offer still stands. You could make wigs for my boys.”

“It’s not giving up, it’s being wise enough to know what season you’re in. And, thanks but no thanks. I’m done with hair and all things related to it—wigs included.”

“But you’re so good at making them. You’d be rich if you started making Drag wigs on the regular. You’ve become a wiggy legend with the ones you’d done for me in the past.”

That was it. Sabra huffed and let it fly. “I said no. I don’t want to!”

Chloe launched an impressive side eye. “Who you hollering at, Bitch?”

Sabra knew she was wrong and corrected herself. “Sorry, but I need you to not sweat me about my decision, okay?”

Chloe deftly ignored her apology while dropping another hair accessory on a small pile near Sabra. “You know, not everything Tilar says is the absolute gospel. You need to continue to fight.”

“Maybe you need to walk a mile in my shoes. From where I sit, everything Tilar said is true.” Sabra had the need to defend her other friend and her belief that her reading would eventually come true.

“Except for you getting a new man in your life. I swear I could see dust rising when you sat down.”

“Shut it and pack. Oh my God, I swear if I could have afforded to pay them, I would have bypassed you and gotten Ambrosia and his guy friend to help me pack.”

“Don’t go near my assistant. He’s threatening to quit over some new trade he’s strung out over as it is.”

Again, Sabra had no clue what that meant. It didn’t matter anyway. She was stuck doing this by herself. Overwhelmed and close to total mental collapse, Sabra had to focus her last bits of motivation to close this chapter of her life and face the unknown. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Chloe here.

Said woman’s voice cut through the haze of self-pity. “Quit being so dramatic. Come hell or high water you always get things done.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. It would be better with some help.”

“I’m helping in my own unique and special way.”

Chloe Reynolds hadn’t been her first choice for the moving task, but Tilar was busy with work. Tilar was good for working and doing. Chloe was better at organizing, directing, and getting in the way. As one of her closest friends, besides Tilar, Sabra leaned on the woman for emotional support. What she couldn’t rely on Chloe to provide was help packing.

Towering over both Sabra and Tilar, Chloe was a formidable presence. She used it to full effect for her occupation as a feminization coach and consultant to the LGBTQ community. As a cis-gender female makeup artist and character stylist at one of the premier Drag clubs in Atlanta, Chloe went toe-to-toe in daily battles with the best in her field. Most of her clients ruled the stages of the scene. Her business was growing with other opportunities to branch out, and Sabra was excited about her friend’s success.

It was the weird words and meanings that were the chore of being Chloe’s friend. Today wasn’t the best day for her to have to wade through the murky pond of Chloe’s colloquialisms. Sabra knew Chloe both appreciated the culture and held her own as a stylist.

That appreciation was the driving force behind the promise she made in her older brother’s memory. While the girls had been in college, he’d been killed in a hate crime while dressed in Drag. He’d never come out to his family. Chloe swore that’s what killed her mother and not the brain tumor that overtook her in a matter of months.

Straighter than a “stiff dick at an orgy,” as she liked to say, Chloe had to prove herself in her industry day in and day out, but she did it with flare and fantastic fashion. Let her tell it, there wasn’t a client yet who could best her with attitude, defiance, or Divadom.

“Sis, you need to take a night and get out there.” Chloe winked and loosed a conspiratorial grin as she looked around for something. “I’m sure some of my drag boos would love to take you out on the town. Let me find my phone, and we can have you ready in a few hours.”

“Not interested, and for the love of an impeccably laid lace-front, get to packing. You’re wearing me out.” Sabra wasn’t up to fighting off Chloe’s shenanigans today. Not with all the crap she accumulated over the years needing to be packed and moved in hours, not days. Day after tomorrow meant another month’s lease payment would be due with a penalty for not vacating by the end of her lease.

“Your gaybies aren’t going to pitch in on the money I’ll owe if I don’t get out of here.” Sabra impressed herself with the use of a word from Chloe’s client’s lifestyle. She needed to impress on her friend how serious she was too. “Stop trying to sidetrack me. For the last time, this is happening. The business is closed. All I want and need for you to do is help me get through this. I need for this part of my life to be done and over with. Can you do that for me? Please?”

Sabra sucked in a huge gulp of ylang-ylang infused air to refrain from cursing her friend. She’d chosen the scent to combat the constant annoyance and antics better known as the Chloe effect.

It failed.

Chloe’s eyes softened as she considered her friend’s plea. She came over to the area where Sabra struggled to put non-related items in a box. Relief washed over Sabra as she bent down to hold down the flaps of the box. Good, she was going to help pack after all. Sabra ran the tape roller over the seams of the box and had it closed before her friend spoke again.

“You’re using that term wrong. Gaybies are gay couples’ children. Plus, I can’t be a Drag mother since I’m not a Drag Queen.”

“Enough with the unwanted Drag culture lesson” Sabra waved her off. “You know what I mean.”

A sly smile crept into view as Chloe lowered her voice. “You know, my boys, they’re so good at scouting out the best men—gay and straight,” Chloe said as if Sabra had said anything to the contrary. Sabra agreed but didn’t want or ask for their services.

Gah! Chloe would ignore a Zombie Apocalypse if she had a mind to.

“You don’t say.” Sabra allowed her hand gesture to do the rest of the talking.

Chloe brushed off Sabra’s middle finger response as she added. “I totally agree with that theory. I’ve seen them in action.”

Another middle finger thrown should have done the trick—should have.

Chloe acknowledged the lewd gesture without missing a beat. “Even your body knows what you need right now. Everything about you is stressed, uptight, and overly sensitive.”

“Chloe, leave my sex life out of this. You’re one to talk—hypocrite much?”

Chloe waved her off and continued her assertive march to make her point. “You so need to whet your wick. A good fuck might not save the world, but it fixes a lot of immediate shit.” Chloe gave her a wink. “Yes, love, you so know you need it. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Sabra refused to consider her words. No time. She had to get her life back on track and getting out of this expensive lease was the first step. “All I know is that you need to help me pack. Let it go. I’m not going anywhere until the job is done. Time is ticking, and I don’t see you whipping out your credit card to pay for a missed deadline. Fool around, and I won’t let you rummage through my inventory like you know you want to. Believe it or not, I still have a lot of emotional attachment to all this.”

“You sure as shit don’t act like it. All I’m saying is to buck it up and fight for yours.”

“Says she who doesn’t have massive legal bills or the Twitterverse turning her into memes and the newest cast member of So You’ve Been Social Media Shamed.”

“Who knew that the Mommy Mob was so gangsta?”

“Pick up something and pack. Please, Chloe, I can’t keep begging you to help all day?” was all Sabra could manage to say without giving into an episode of sloppy tears.

Twenty-eight years old, single, and a has-been business failure wasn’t how Sabra’s story was supposed to play out. As the owner and operator of Happy Ever After Beauty, Sabra had been at the top of the child pageant hairstyle game. The last seven-plus years since college graduation had been a blur of success and personal milestones. Today, she wasn’t so sure what her next step would be.

“All right, here,” Chloe brought a large empty box over and dropped it in front of where Sabra sat on the floor. “You might as well get a system to your packing. Start with this pile of hair stuff I put together.”

Despite her faults, Chloe really was a master organizer and efficiency expert. That woman could transform a pig into a goddess in mere minutes with a wig, magic spackle—her name for makeup, and half a mind to do so.

“I don’t have all day to fuss around. I have to be out of here by tomorrow. I know I mentioned that—like a whole bunch of times.”

The wave of dismissal was in line with what Sabra expected from her friend. No matter how much she fussed, though, it was good having Chloe here to keep Sabra from giving up and curling into a ball of despair.

Sabra pressed the tape down to close the packing box. She picked it up and immediately regretted cramming that heavy tray of hair accessories in.

As her friend looked around for something to occupy her interest, Sabra admired her own work with Chloe’s collage of colors mingled through a mass of thick dreadlocks. Chloe was a master at makeup and optical illusions, but there wasn’t anything Sabra couldn’t do with hair. Even if it weren’t her first love, Sabra wouldn’t deny she had a gift when it came to hair.

If only she could believe that she could have lightning strike twice—the next time with her sincere passion—fragrances.

Out the corner of her eye, Chloe twirled around in a bright fuchsia faux feather boa. The spectacle softened her heart. Chloe was true to form. Sabra wouldn’t ask her friend to be any other way.

She also couldn’t hate on her friend for being more interested in the spoils of Sabra’s failed war. In Chloe’s hands, there was no telling what anything in here could become.

She took a tentative step to gauge the possibility of crossing the space with the box. The other woman tossed a feigned look of concern her way. “Be careful with that. It looks heavy.”

“You don’t say. How about you get your butt up and help like you said you would?”

“Why didn’t you get a dolly to help you move the boxes?”

“Because I’m on a tight budget. You should know. That’s why I just moved in with you. Thank you for that, by the way.”

“No problem. As long as I’m not seriously dating, you are so welcome to stay with me. Once I land my next boyfriend victim, your ass is out. You hear me, Bitch?”

“Stop talking to me like one of your clients. I know the real you. You’re a romantic sap. I promise I’m only there for a month at the most. I can’t be all up under you like that in that small condo of yours.”

“I know sweetie. I’m just messing with you,” Chloe said, waving away Sabra’s words. “Ooh, watch out for that glitter ball.”

“Chloe, get over here and help me!”

“Can’t, I’m over here doing the most with this miniature Cher wig.”

“If I fall, it’s your ass, Chloe.”

“Yeah-yeah, Bitch.”

Chloe started out as one of her best friends in college like Tilar. The three women had become close as sisters in recent years. There wasn’t much Sabra wouldn’t give her friend, but that didn’t mean she had to let her in on that fact.

Chloe continued to eye the room looking for something else to get into as she added, “I said I’d come and support you through this move. I never said anything about actually helping you pack.”

“Chloe, I swear on my best fragrance recipe, I will put you out and never speak to you again if you don’t help me get this place packed up before the movers get here in the morning.” She ducked in time to dodge a volley of Styrofoam glitter balls Chloe threw. “Girl, stop playing around before you hit me for real.”

“Bitch, who says I wasn’t trying to hit you for real just now?”

“Me, because if you were, you’d catch a beat down like the one I unleashed way back.”

“That was pure luck. You caught me off guard.” Chloe watched as Sabra carted the heavy box over to the door. The movers would take them all to her storage unit in the morning.

“Uh-huh, all I know is you better get to work or get gone.”

“Dang, Bitch, I’m too pretty for menial labor. This is going to cost you.” Chloe went over to the opposite corner to rifle through the wigs and hairpieces. “Gah! Even I can’t use my knack for imagination to salvage anything here.”

“Who said you could have anything there? And, for the last time, don’t call me Bitch.”

Chloe arched an eyebrow that was so impeccably executed she’d give the best social media glamor makeup models a run for their money. She launched a pretty convincing pout as she said, “I’m your best friend and closest person to family. I know you don’t expect me to leave here without a box of something I can repurpose?”

“Everything over there is child-sized. Unless your head has shrunk from the last time, I colored your hair, I don’t think you can use any of it. Also, Tilar would beg to differ on your proclamation about being my only best friend.”

Undeterred, Chloe continued her deep dive into the pile. Her friend milled about the corner wading through thousands of dollars of used inventory.

Sabra still endured the pang of loss whenever she thought about that pile. She’d spent countless hours and invested vast amounts of resources creating the pieces that lay strewn about on the floor. Her copyrighted signature of the Doll Hair Whisperer label was sewn in each one. That label touted Sabra’s quality secret process. That was until a gang of Pageant moms started selling knockoffs for half the price. Sabra wanted to spit at the memory. She’d put all her talent and time into making and customizing all those wigs, pieces, and hats for clients.

Her thanks was to be run out of business by a mob of angry mothers accusing her of trying to bully them with legal action. They took to social media to proclaim her the mean villain who copyrighted “Doll Hair.”

Each day strengthened the confirmation of her big mistake. Maybe the cease and desist letters were worded a bit too harshly, but she had to protect her brand and livelihood.

A thin thread of remorse wove itself into her memories.

It was the lawsuits that had drained her. Not one had she won, and she was the worse for wear and pocketbook. A reputation in tatters and no income to speak of were the results of her efforts to stand up for herself. Nah, Sabra was so done with this business.

“What a waste.” Sabra’s mumbled truth did nothing to ease the regret that etched a groove into her soul each time thoughts brought her back to this business.

Chloe stopped rummaging long enough to look her way. “What’s that?”

“It’s nothing. Just talking out loud.”

“What’s new?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe you shutting it and working? That would be new. Heck, that would be a novelty or darn near miracle.”

The other woman’s voice softened as she said, “You know, Sabra, I admire you for sticking up for yourself. So, what if you lost a few battles, there’s still fight in you for the war.”

“Nope, I’m done.”

This time, Chloe didn’t press the issue. “In that case, can I have this?” she asked pointing at a train trunk of supplies Sabra had yet to go through.

“You sure cannot.” It was the nice-nasty delivery of Sabra’s voice that made Chloe stop short and look her way.

The two broke out into laughter.

Through the dying chuckles, Chloe managed to get out, “Well, at least I’ll smell delicious when you make that perfect scent you’ve been working on all these years.”

“Yeah,” was all Sabra could get out at the reminder of her major business misstep.

She should have gone with her dream to build her fragrance line and not the easy money as a hair stylist and glamor coach for mini divas in the making. Yeah, the money spent on one-time use wigs should have gone into ingredients and a test space for her fragrance formulas.

Right as the thought might be, Sabra had no time to linger on woulds and shoulds. She had an office to pack up and close down.

Chloe plucked a green pixie wig up with one of her decorative chopsticks. The chopstick had been nestled into a plump hair bun of equally colorful dreadlocks poised like a crown on top of her head. When she had Sabra’s full attention, the social media-approved purveyor of trendy fashion asked, “What kind of kid where’s this?”

Sabra laughed despite her situation. “Don’t make that face at my wig creation. As for your question? It’s the kind whose mother begs me to make a tinker bell pixie wig for a talent competition, has the kid wear it, and then conveniently forgets to pay me for my services after the kid fails to place in the top five.” She eyed the piece that had been used in a talent competition for a Young Miss pageant a few years ago.

Sabra didn’t want to think about how many hours went into crafting the custom piece. It was in that pile for a reason. She’d avoided packing up those items for long enough.

“What is this?” Chloe asked, pointing to another wig that was a child-sized replica of an Elvis pompadour. “It’s like I’m marooned on the isle of misfit wigs.”

Sabra’s laugh was loud and therapeutic. “Girl, this is why I needed you here today. You always have a way of making anything bearable.”

“Does that mean I can get a rescue out of this corner of wigs from the ghost of pageants past?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. But you have to help me with the heavy stuff.” Sabra pointed to her wig forms, dress dummies, display cases, and other traveling equipment she’d used over the last seven years.

Chloe pouted and eyed the mountain of stuff Sabra had collected over her failed career. “I can’t see how all that crap got excluded from the scope of work for the movers. Aren’t they supposed to pack?”

“It’s not part of my package. I got the one that was on the just above begging your friends to help you move option.” Sabra allowed her glare to finish the meaning of how useless Chloe was as a mover. “The movers are coming to pick up any boxes, items, and furniture that is at the entrance. They won’t pack or move anything that isn’t already over there.” Sabra pointed to the meager number of boxes next to the door of her work studio.

The chime of overly chipper bells rang again. Chloe moved faster than Sabra ever witnessed before as she snatched the phone to look at the screen. “Bitch! I’m tired of hearing that annoying ringtone. If you’re not going to answer it, how do you put it on silent?”

“Give me my phone.” Sabra swiped at the phone as Chloe jumped back in time to avoid her attempt to take the irritating device. “I still leave it on in case of emergencies. It’s probably another one of those marketing robocalls.”

Satisfied that her screen lock would keep her nosey friend out of her phone, Sabra continued to squat next to a larger box as the bells stopped. Convinced that the bottom of the box was reinforced with enough tape and packing peanuts, she piled as many binders, lookbooks, sketchbooks, and other related binders as possible.

“Are you trying to qualify for the packing Olympics or something? Huh, sis? That box is going to be too heavy to move.” Chloe moved closer. “Here, let me help you lift it.”

Sabra lifted to a standing position and moved toward Chloe to redistribute the weight. Chloe was right. The box was way too heavy for her to handle alone. Chloe’s outstretched hands retracted at the last minute as the tinkling bells filled the studio workspace again.

“No, you didn’t just do that. Come on!”

Chloe ignored Sabra as she put on her professional voice and answered the call. “Hello? Happy Ever After Beauty, how may I help you?”

Sabra ignored her friend as she struggled and trembled under the weight of the bulging box. She shuffled across the space to the door. Just a few more steps and she’d have the box by the door.

Almost there. Breathe through and take your time, she intoned in an internal, meditative chant.

The area she’d designated for large boxes welcomed her. Another few steps and she’d put the box down.

“Yes, may I ask who’s calling?”

Sabra ignored Chloe. She’d take pleasure in embarrassing Chloe when she tried to get her to take the call. Under the weight of the box, her fingers might as well be slathered in oil for the amount of grip she had on it.

“SCAD? Oh, yes, she’s available.”

Don’t drop, don’t drop, don’t fall…

“Tonight at 7 p.m.? Yes, she can make it. No worries about the short notice.”

“Chloe, come help, now!”

“She’d be delighted to be the keynote speaker.”

It was her right hand that was the first to slip under the mounting impact of the weight.

That’s when it happened.