With our hands full of magazines, we ripped and laughed, slashed and argued our way from one magazine to the next. Sam wanted me to look like Barbra Streisand and Gail wanted me to look like Mary J. Blige. We barely served coffee and I don’t think we poured one drink for one passenger. We were too focused.

Before we knew it we were back in Baltimore and still debating which end of the fashion spectrum I would choose. We raced through the terminal, hopped the shuttle, reached my brick-covered apartment building, and raced up the stairs to apartment 2C. We took a quick minute to catch a breath.

“Okay, so we only have twenty days,” proclaimed Gail. “We have to make each moment count.”

“First stop, the closet,” Sam shouted, grabbing Gail, rushing into my room, and sliding the mirrored closet door open.

“Aaaah!!!!!” they both exclaimed, standing in front of my closet, eyes wide like they’d seen a ghost. Then calmly, with his voice slightly above a whisper, Sam cautiously said, “Montana, hand me your telephone.”

“Sure,” I said, innocently handing him the phone.

He slowly put the phone to his ear and began speaking. “Hello, Homicide? I need to report a murder. Chile, somebody done killed fashion! Her name is Montana Moore. Hurry, before she strikes again!” They laughed and howled as I snatched the phone back. Then like Judge Joe Brown, Sam delivered my sentence.

“Montana Moore, you are being charged with two counts of wrong color combinations, three counts of cheap material, eight counts of shopping from the Sears and JCPenney catalogs, and twelve counts of how-in-the-hell did this jump off the rack and into my closet!!”

“Come on, guys,” I whined, trying to salvage a few threads of my wardrobe. “It can’t be that bad. I mean this works, this is nice right?” I pleaded, holding up my favorite ensemble. Their faces were expressionless. “Okay…” rummaging again through the closet. “This. Now I know this is nice.” Again, no reaction.

“Girl, absolutely nothing in your closet works,” Gail offered, sliding my closet door shut. “Not a scarf, a hat, a sock, nothing! And not only that, Montana, you’ve got to do something about your appearance.”

“The black Barbie look has long since been played. Your hair is a mess and your makeup is all wrong,” Gail softly added.

“Well if I was that bad, how come nobody said anything?”

“Girl, my daddy always told me if they’re sleeping, don’t wake ’em up,” Sam said.

“Was I sleeping that much?”

“Girl, you were in a coma! This situation is desperate,” Gail said as she paced the floor, heavy in thought. “And as much as I love Baltimore, Baltimore ain’t gonna do it for you. You are in a drastic state, and drastic times call for drastic measures. Sam, are you going where I’m going?” Gail asked.