Seven Sisters Sensation
"African-Caribbean hair braider Sister Joy works magic from her Seven Sisters shop, and when model Chris needs braids for a last-minute shoot, she weaves something more than hair."
The shoot was tomorrow. His braids were ruined. Chris was panicking.
"Who's open at midnight?"
One name came up: Sister Joy. Seven Sisters Road. 24-hour services.
She answered the door in a silk robe, thick and unbothered.
"Emergency, yeah? Come nuh."
Her shop was in her flat. Professional setup, mirrors everywhere. She worked while he sat, her thick body moving around him, her hands gentle in his hair.
"Yuh a model?"
"Trying to be."
"Yuh pretty enough." Her eyes met his in the mirror. "Who ruined these braids?"
"Someone who didn't care."
"Mi care." Her hands lingered. "About everything I touch."
The braids took three hours. Somewhere around hour two, the energy shifted.
"Yuh tense," she observed.
"Nervous about tomorrow."
"Don't be." She leaned close. "Yuh beautiful. Yuh work will be beautiful. And tonight..."
"Tonight?"
"Tonight, mi make yuh feel beautiful too."
Between braiding sessions, she showed him other magic.
"Yes! Chris! Right there!"
Her thick body worshipped and worshipping, her hands as skilled at pleasure as at plaits.
"Don't stop! Mi not finished with yuh!"
She finished him. Finished the braids. Both were masterpieces.
"The shoot went perfect," he texted the next day.
"Good. Come back tonight. Mi style yuh again."
"Just styling?"
"Yuh know what mi mean."
Chris's career took off. Every shoot, same braids, same stylist.
"Your hair is iconic," magazines say.
"Thanks to my girl," he replies.
Sister Joy. Seven Sisters sensation.
Her hands made him famous.
Her love made him whole.