Page 205 of New Growth
“Thanks, Es,” I said, my tone deadpan. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She gave me a knowing look. “You’d be a mess, that’s what.”
I laughed, feeling the knot in my stomach ease a little and realizing maybe motivation wasn’t the point.
By the time I finished setting up my booth, my nerves were shot.
Tablecloth smoothed. Sign taped. Products in neat rows—curl custards, oils, my whipped mango butter with the handwritten labels I almost cried over last night. I adjusted my display for the hundredth time and straightened the small stack of business cards I had custom printed. Gold foil. Matte finish.
London and Chelsea were already getting ready for the hair show portion of the expo, going back and forth in front of the booth where we displayed our mannequins with the Hair Icons inspired looks. Meanwhile, Johanna and Esther were busy restocking the product table and chatting with early onlookers.
My palms were sweating.
The mango butter was new. I based it on the concoction I made when I styled Esther’s hair back in Thailand. I figured since I was going to extend the EL’evation brand, I might as well start with something fresh. El was so excited that I made that decision, he even made the logo for me.
This was its debut, and I felt like I was sending my firstborn off to kindergarten—except in this case, if the world didn’t love it, it wouldn’t just be heartbreaking, it’d be humiliating.
What if no one bought it? What if it melted? What if I spelled rosemary wrong on the damn label?
But then, someone stopped.
A girl with bright green box braids and deep dimples picked up one of the jars.
“I know you from Instagram. Elliot, right?”
My heart stuttered. “Y-yeah, that’s me.”
She unscrewed one of the jars and inhaled deeply.
“This smells amazing,” she said, closing her eyes like it was perfume. “Oh my God. What is this?”
“Mango butter, shea, avocado oil… and a little rosemary and peppermint,” I said, trying not to hover. “I make it in small batches. It’s great for dry ends, twists, even as a body butter.”
She grinned. “I’m buying two.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. My scalp’s been acting up, and this just smells like it’ll heal something.”
She handed over a fifty and walked away humming, her bag swinging with my jars inside.
And just like that, the air shifted.
People kept coming. Not in waves—more like a steady stream. Some asked questions, some sniffed and walked on, but a surprising number stayed. They tested my products on the backs of their hands. They asked about ingredients. They told me about their curls, their shrinkage, their breakage, and even their dreams.
A mother-daughter duo stood in front of my table for ten full minutes, discussing which oil would help the girl’s thick coils retain moisture overnight. A college student with bleached ends dabbed some custard into her palm and smiled. “This feels like buttercream frosting.”
Johanna caught my eye and gave me a subtle thumbs-up. Esther, standing beside her, was already restocking the sample spoons.
Behind them, London had a mannequin that was halfway braided and was explaining sectioning techniques to a growing crowd. Chelsea was on the mic, detailing twist-outs like a pro, her honey-blonde curls bouncing under the lights as she gestured and smiled.
And somewhere in all of this chaos, El had returned. His pod had malfunctioned, and he stepped away to fix it.
“Hey, boss,” El murmured against my ear.
I leaned back into him instinctively. “You good?”
“All patched up,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of my head.
