Mr. B’s face melts into his usual easy smile when he notices me and Ana. “Shay, your hair!” he calls, hopping off the stage into the aisle. As he approaches me, he lifts his hands in an excited motion, and I tense, thinking that he’s going to touch my hair. Thankfully, he doesn’t. When he lowers his hands, I feel silly for my tiny mental freak-out.

“Can you take it down?” Mr. B says, his blue eyes shining with excitement.

“Um,” I say awkwardly, not certain how to refuse him. Ugh, I shouldn’t have put it up in the ponytail. After I put my hair up, it holds the shape of the ponytail. I end up with this weird bump in the back if I take it down. “I don’t—”

“You don’t know how excited I am that your hair is the real deal,” he says over me, not noticing my discomfort. “No transfigured white-girl hair in our Bronxtown Brooms!”

Ana glances at me and blinks a few times, her whole face stiffening. Even though her change in expression is barely noticeable, I can tell she’s sensing how weird this moment is. I’ve never been so glad to have her with me. I purse my lips and raise my eyebrows slightly back at her.

“How long is it?” Mr. B asks, still on his own planet.

“Like this long,” I say, gesturing to my shoulders. “It doesn’t look that good today.”

“That’s okay,” he says cheerfully. He continues to stand there, staring at me expectantly.

Realizing that there’s no way I’m getting out of this without making a fuss, I reach up and untangle my hair from around the ponytail holder. Though I can’t see it as it comes down, I can tell from the way it feels that it does not look good. The frizzy front part of my hair is fully doing its own thing, separate from the rest of my curls. Embarrassment heats my face as Mr. B’s expression turns quizzical.

“Hm. It’s a bit . . .” He trails off, stroking his beard scruff thoughtfully. “Can you make it . . . bigger?”

“Bigger?” I repeat.

“Curlier?” he says, waving his hands vaguely around his head. “I don’t know. Brittany, you know hair. What am I trying to say?”

Brittany barely spares us a look. “I have no idea,” she says, picking at her nails with a troubled expression.

“Okay, well, I’ll just keep shoving my foot firmly into my mouth, then,” he says, laughing good-naturedly.

“More defined?” Ana offers, giving Mr. B a wooden smile.

He looks at her like he’s just noticed she’s standing there. “Yes, that! Ana gets me. The rest of you are all useless,” he says cheerfully. He still pronounces Ana’s name wrong. Ana’s mouth twitches, then resolves back into that wooden smile.

“I’ll make sure I . . . define it for the show,” I mumble.