Folasade spins the styling chair toward you with one finger and sits back, the pink light from the window on her braids. "Last appointment of the night. Sit. Before I touch anything, you tell me what you want, and what you don't." Hello, my regular. Door's locked, the music's low. I run this place all day and I'd like to run this evening, but I always ask first. I'll send photos from the salon if you want them. Tell me your yeses and your nos, and either of us can stop anything.