The Bad Hair Day Boss Babe Era

I looked like a pyramid of anxiety — base layer of confusion, middle layer of regret, and the pointy tip was definitely going to be humiliation. Jordan had convinced me that selling LuxeLocks hair products would make me a "boss babe" with enough passive income to buy the limited edition sneakers every other freshman at Northwood High seemed to have. Spoiler: I was not a boss babe. I was barely a functioning babe with questionable judgment.

"Just bear with me," Jordan had said, her perfect waves somehow defying physics, humidity, and probably several laws of thermodynamics. "My cousin's friend's sister made three grand last month. You just need that CEO energy."

My CEO energy currently consisted of panic-sweating through my favorite hoodie while clutching a bottle of something called "Botanical Miracle Serum" that cost more than my entire life savings. Jordan had signed me up for their recruitment event at the community center, which turned out to be twenty confused teenagers and forty very intense adults with too much hair gel and not enough boundaries.

The product pyramid was real: sell enough hair masks, recruit three friends, and eventually you'd be sitting at the top collecting passive income while living your best life in Bali. What actually happened was I ended up with three boxes of unsold conditioner in my closet and my mom asking why I kept texting everyone from my dentist to my math tutor about "revolutionary hair science."

Then came the moment I'd been dreading: Jordan said I had to practice my sales pitch on real prospects. My first victim? Tyler's dad, who was literally built like a bear and had once stared down a raccoon that tried stealing our camping food. The man radiated the kind of energy that made you confess sins you hadn't even committed yet.

"So," I said, my voice cracking like I was still going through puberty even though I'd had my growth spurt two years ago. "Do you ever feel like your hair could be... more?"

Mr. Torres looked at me. Then at the serum. Then back at me. The silence stretched like that one piece of gum you keep chewing even though it lost its flavor three hours ago. His beard, which could probably house a small ecosystem, twitched.

"My hair's been the same for forty years, kid," he said. "But you know what? My wife's been complaining about her split ends." He pulled out his wallet. "How much?"

I made my first sale. Mr. Torres even bought two — one for his wife, one because "you look like you need the confidence boost, kid." Which was rude but also weirdly accurate?

Later, Jordan and I split a protein shake and calculated our profits. After subtracting the starter kit cost, product samples, and the anxiety medication I definitely didn't need but was considering asking my mom about, I had made approximately negative forty dollars.

"So," Jordan said, scrolling through TikTok. "Wanna try selling those waist trainers next? My cousin's friend's sister says—"

"No," I said. "Absolutely not. My CEO energy has retired."

She laughed. "Fine. But you're still coming to the mall with me Saturday. I saw these shoes—"

"Say no more." I checked my bank app. The negative balance stared back at me like a disappointed math teacher. "I'll bring the serum. Maybe we'll find some more customers."

My hair did look kind of amazing though, so at least there was that.