Page 108 of Made for Wilde
“That’s not possible.” Sarah squeezes my shoulder. “But seriously, Charlotte. We’ve practiced this routine so many times we could do it in our sleep. You’ve got this. Your mom would be so proud.”
I want to believe her. I need to believe her. But standing here, knowing what’s about to happen, all I can think about is not measuring up. Not being good enough. Not honoring the legacy my mother left behind.
I peek through the curtain separating us from the auditorium. My heart does a little flip when I spot Koda in the third row. He’s got his phone out, already recording everything, and when he sees me looking, he waves with that crooked smile that never fails to make my knees weak.
For just a moment, I wish Dad was here too. I push the thought away quickly. Today is about proving myself, not dwelling on what’s missing.
We do a final check of all our tools. Sarah tests the curling iron temperature while I make sure we have enough bobby pins in easy reach. Everything is exactly where it needs to be.
Professor Lowell appears at our station, clipboard in hand and that serious expression she wears during evaluations. “Charlotte and Sarah, you’re up next. Five minutes to get on stage and set up.”
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. This is it. All those weeks of practice, all those late nights perfecting techniques, everything comes down to the next twenty-five minutes.
I think of my mother standing in her salon, her fingers weaving through a client’s hair with absolute confidence. She made it look like art. Like breathing. I used to sit in the corner of her salon after school, watching her transform people. She’d catch my eye in the mirror sometimes and wink, like we shared a secret about the magic she was creating.
“You can do anything you set your mind to, Charlotte,” she used to tell me. “You just have to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you.”
I wish she could be here to see this. I wish I could look out into that audience and see her face. But I can carry her with me. I can make her proud.
“Ready?” Sarah asks, grabbing our tool kit.
The baby gives me one more solid kick, like she’s telling me to get moving.
I nod, following Sarah and Jade toward the stage entrance. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The auditorium lights are blindingly bright as we walk onto the stage. I blink against the glare, trying to adjust my vision. Gradually, faces in the audience come into focus. Koda gives me a thumbs up from the third row, and I spot several of our classmates scattered throughout the seats. Three judges sit at a long table in the front row, their scoring sheets already out, pens poised.
My legs feel shaky as I walk to our station. The stage is bigger than I expected. More exposed. Every eye in the room is on us, watching, evaluating, judging.
The head judge stands, and the room falls silent. “Good morning, everyone. Our next team is Charlotte Palmer and Sarah Smith, working with model Jade Chen.”
Hearing my name announced makes it real. I straighten my shoulders and arrange the last of our supplies.
“Contestants,” the judge continues, “you will have twenty-five minutes to complete one hairstyle challenge. The style you must create will be randomly selected now.”
She reaches into a box on the judges’ table and pulls out a card. My heart hammers as she reads it.
“Your challenge is to create a braided crown with cascading curls. The style should be elegant, suitable for a formal event, with the braid forming a complete crown around the head and the remaining hair styled in loose, romantic curls. You may begin... now.”
The timer starts, and Sarah and I spring into action.
We’ve practiced variations of this style dozens of times, but the time pressure makes everything feel more urgent.
My hands move to Jade’s hairline, sectioning out a portion for the braid. Sarah positions herself on the opposite side, ready to maintain tension as we work. I take three small sections at Jade’s temple and begin the Dutch braid, my fingers working carefully despite the clock ticking. This is where I’m supposed to be. This is what I’m meant to do.
Sarah moves with me, anticipating what I need before I have to ask. She hands me bobby pins at exactly the right moments, her timing perfect. The crown takes shape beautifully, each section lying smoothly against Jade’s head. As I approach the connection point, I taper the sections carefully, and Sarah secures everything while I weave the ending into the beginning.
“Time check?” I ask as the braid completes its circle.
“Thirteen minutes left,” Sarah says, already unclipping the rest of Jade’s hair.
We move into the curling phase, working efficiently. I wrap each section around the barrel, counting silently before releasing perfect spirals. Sarah sections and sprays while I curl, our rhythm seamless. The baby shifts and kicks, but I stay focused.
My mother used to work like this—hands never stopping, creating beauty without even having to think about it. She would have loved this moment.
“Five minutes,” Sarah says, and I push faster, trusting my muscle memory.
The final curl springs free just as Sarah calls out, “Ninety seconds.”
