Duke woke to see Seun at the dressing table. Her hands hung limp by her side, the razor she was using had cut her but she stared ahead, oblivious to the drips turning her white rug scarlet. Duke grabbed the razor and began snipping the threads holding her month old afro weave, as the curls fell tears trickled down her cheeks. She missed herself, the constraints of her last job had made her feel alien to her Africa; smothered by the “acceptable” look, accent, and knowledge of status she almost forgot Africa’s beauty never lay in conformity. Well, no more.