Magnolia Room for the evening of June 17. After they’d gone my mother asked me, “Where are those two headed looking like a couple of undertakers?” They told the events manager at the Hilton that they wanted whatever Harold Grant had ordered for his daughter, only “up a notch,” which translated into premium catering — miniature crab cakes, a roast-beef station, and four hours of open bar. Waiting at the airport for fares, my father flipped through bridal magazines, pul ing out pages that he liked, tucking them into the inside pocket of his uniform coat.

The invitation, they decided, would say “semi-formal.” Yes, “after-five attire” sounded classier, but they didn’t want anyone to be confused. “And,”

Daddy said, “irregardless of what we tel other people to wear, me and Raleigh are going to have on tuxedos with morning coats.”

I flipped through the sheaf of pictures he had cul ed from Modern Bride. The dresses were al part princess, part Renaissance hooker — deep necklines, pinched waists, and very dramatic skirts flaring over stiff crinolines.

I went through the stack twice, searching for something that looked like a dress somebody’s mother could wear. I didn’t even comment on the stock photo of Lady Diana Spencer. “You have to let her pick her own dress.”

“You’re right,” Daddy said. “She’s going to need to try it on, or what have you. We’l show her these photos as a suggestion, just to let her know the sky is the limit.”

DANA CAME TWO Wednesdays after Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s party, ready at last for her wash-and-set. I lowered her into the shampoo bowl, careful to cushion her neck with a folded-over towel. This close, I could smel her perfume. Today she smel ed like my mother, White Shoulders.

“Your father and your uncle are throwing a birthday party for the Pink Fox?” she said.

“No,” I said. “For my mother. The anniversary is just the occasion.”

“Why?”

“For al the hard work she does.”

Dana sat up from the shampoo bowl and watched my mother as she eased ammonia onto a customer’s roots.

“My mother works hard,” Dana said, “but she never had a party or anything close to it. Do you know that?”

“Lean back if you want this shampoo,” I said, smothering the urge to defend my father’s crazy idea. “And keep your voice down; it’s sort of a surprise.” She leaned back and I turned the water on and squeezed the sprayer. “How does that feel?”

“Good,” she said, but the cords of her neck were stil stretched tight.

“Relax,” I said. “I know what I’m doing.”

I squirted shampoo into my palm and rubbed it into her thick hair, using my nails on her scalp until she moaned.

“Feel good?”

Relaxers are good for business, there’s no doubt about that. Back when everybody got a press-and-curl, they would come to the shop only when they had money. Everybody had a hot comb tucked in the kitchen drawer, and in a pinch you could iron out your own naps. But the relaxer needed to be done by a professional to get the hair bone- straight without processing it right off your scalp. Even my mama was unable to handle the back of her own head. I worked it in for her, forcing the crinkles flat with my gloved fingers. Stil , we both missed the days of the press- and-curl, just for the transformation factor. Used to be when you washed a woman’s hair, it went back to its natural state, the way it was even before she was born. She sat up in your chair with plaits in her head, showing you the way she was when she was smal and used to sit between her mother’s knees. There was magic in taking them from where they were, to where they wanted to be. It was a miracle every time.

Now, you get them under the hose and the hair gets nothing but wet, and you have to content yourself with just a glimpse of the roots. You just reach your hands down under the processed stuff like a blind man trying to figure out if he’s in love or not. Dana’s roots under the pads of my fingers were kinky, strong like ground wire.

“I’m getting wet,” she said.

I whispered. “When we have this party, you’re invited.”

Dana shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“What if you could bring your friend Ronalda? The invitation says you can bring a guest.”

She sighed. “You know I can’t hardly get out of the house.”

“Wel , bring your mother.” Dana’s head jerked in my hands, so I made the water cooler. “Is that better?”

“Chaurisse,” she said with a shaky voice. “I just can’t come, okay?”

“Why?”

“For one thing, Ronalda wil be gone by then.”

“Gone where?” I helped Dana sit up and wrapped a clean towel around her cold, wet head.

“Gone back to Indiana,” she said, and told everyone in the shop what had happened. Ronalda, it seemed, had taken Nkrumah on a quick errand and the little boy was hit by a car. Not bad enough for him to spend the night in the hospital, but bad enough for the kid to scream and hol er so bad that you would have thought he was dying. Somebody cal ed the police, and one thing led to another. Ronalda’s father and her stepmother were having the biggest, most complicated fight ever. And the little boy wasn’t even hurt. That’s the thing Dana couldn’t get over. But her stepmother was completely hysterical.

“Fairburn Townhouses can be a little shady,” Dana admitted, “but only at night. And that’s where Ronalda’s boyfriend was staying, so that’s where she had to go. You can’t explain that to Ronalda’s parents because they are real y bourgie people, you know what I mean?”

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