I watched as some girls came in and out, making appointments and getting loose braids re-plaited back in. A couple mothers dropped by to feed their hungry children who had been sitting in the same seat for hours. Men walked through the door, too, boyfriends and husbands who needed to pay up for the hairstyles that cost anywhere from one hundred fifty dollars to five hundred dollars depending on what the women got.

I was almost done, except for the ends. The lady still needed to burn them off to seal the tips. But just as she was running the sizzling flame over the synthetic hair, melting them down, the front door burst open with a loud thud, hitting the wall. A skinny man, wearing a black baseball cap and a blue bandana over his nose and mouth, tightened his grip on the black gun in his hand. Two ladies screamed out, making everybody look at the door.

“Y’all shut the fuck up and get on the floor!” the man yelled. He was shaking worse than some of us.

“Oh my God!” Shakira hollered.

“Bitch, I said shut the fuck up!” he shouted, pointing the gun at her. I watched the man scan the room with his eyes as everybody jumped to the floor and then he told one of the hair braiders who was sitting, to get up. I laid my head on the dirty floor and waited for whatever was gonna happen next.