The Night My Hair Tried to Kill Me

The humidity in the gymnasium was absolutely wrecking my hair. I'd spent forty-five minutes with the flat iron this morning, but apparently, prom night had other plans. My curls were frizzing out like I'd stuck a fork in an electrical socket, and I could feel the panic rising in my throat.

"You look fine, Marcus," Jada said, though the way she was fighting not to laugh said otherwise. "It's got... personality."

"Personality?" I ran a hand through it, which was obviously a mistake. "It looks like a bird nested in there and then died."

She actually did laugh then. "Okay, that's valid. But nobody's gonna notice. They're all too busy worrying about their own stuff."

I checked my reflection in the darkened gym window. She was wrong. Someone would notice. Specifically, someone would be Tyler, who was currently standing by the punch bowl looking like he'd stepped out of a TikTok tutorial, whose hair was somehow defying physics and humidity alike. The universe was unfair.

My palms were sweating. Like, actually sweating. I wiped them on my rented tuxedo pants—which, gross, but desperate times—and tried to remember how to breathe normally. This was stupid. I was being stupid. It was just prom.

Except it wasn't just prom, because Tyler had been giving me That Look for three weeks, and tonight was supposedly when Something Was Going To Happen, according to Jada, who was apparently an expert on these things despite having never dated anyone herself.

"He's coming over," Jada hissed.

I felt my soul leave my body. "What? Now? With my hair looking like this?"

"Marcus." Tyler was right there. Smelling like expensive cologne and confidence. "Hey."

My brain blue-screened. "Hey."

"You wanna..." He gestured toward the empty dance floor. "I mean, only if you want to. No pressure or whatever."

I looked at Jada. She made shooing motions with her hands. Traitor.

"Yeah," I heard myself say. "Sure."

We walked to the center of the gym, and my palms were sweating so bad I was genuinely concerned about slippery hand situations. Tyler reached for my hands, and I froze.

"Sorry," I said. "Sweaty palms. It's a thing. My body hates me."

Tyler smiled—a real one, not his polished Instagram smile. "Mine too."

We stood there for a second, both of us just acknowledging our mutual nervousness, and suddenly the terrifyingness of the moment cracked open into something else. Something bearable.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Me neither."

The DJ started playing some slow song that was probably going to make everyone cry later. Tyler's hand was warm in mine, sweat and all. And as we started moving, I realized Jada had been right about one thing: nobody was looking at my hair.

Tyler was looking at me like I was the only person in the room. And honestly? That was better than perfect hair any day.