Finally I was allowed to look in the mirror. My hair was a smartly cut bob with honey-colored highlights. I began to see the reflection of a face more beautiful and elegant than before. The face of a woman of means, a woman of class, a woman of sophistication. Surely my eyes were playing tricks on me. Surely the reflection I saw couldn’t possibly be me.

Turning to Sam, then looking at Oscar, I was speechless. Common as it may be, the only phrase I could find to express my emotions was “Thank you.”

Over their shoulders I noticed my Sam toting bags full of clothes. Oscar and Sam stepped aside, letting him through. Taking my arm, he led me to the back room where I could change.

“Try this on first,” he said, unwrapping one outfit after another.

“Next, this. Next, this. And next, this.” Outfit after outfit, shoe after shoe, until finally, we agreed on a look. He nodded, Gail applauded. I was a goddess in a painted-on, body-gripping, red strapless gown by Valentino, accented with Gucci diamond studded earrings. Nude strappy sandals by Miu Miu, a buttery leather asymmetrical bag by Hermès, and the scent of Donna Karan’s Cashmere Mist completed the ensemble.

Looking at Sam then turning to Gail, once again I offered a soft and sincere “Thank you.” I was overwhelmed.

Nearly breathless, like the ballerina on my childhood musical jewelry box, I twirled out of the salon. The entire way home to Baltimore, I twirled. Alone in my bedroom, I basked in the glow of the new me and twirled some more. As the bedroom I rounded, and the music box chimes sounded, and my neighbors down below me pounded, I twirled. I was a black ballerina and no thing or no one could cause me to descend from my cloud.

“Montana, what the hell are you doing?”

Except for my mother.

“Meoowww!”

It was as if the music box exploded, catapulting the ballerina headfirst into the ceiling, snapping her body in half.

“And why are you all dressed up, spinning around, staring in the mirror looking retarded?” she asked.

Talk about being smacked back into the present.

“And what in the world happened to all of your beautiful hair? Why did you cut your hair? God made man for His glory. He made woman for man’s glory. And a woman’s hair is her glory.” Still I was speechless. “I’m talking to you, Montana,” she stated, eyes wide, awaiting my response.

“Which question would you like me to answer first, Momma?” I replied.

“All of them. You make the call.”