Chapter 6 Purpose
Purpose.
Esther was right.
Changing courses might be the best option for me, and the thought filled me with excitement. It felt like a simple fix that could completely shift my outlook on being here. Sometimes, you don’t need to uproot everything when things don’t go as planned.
Sometimes, you just need to pivot, like Daddy said—and it’s important to know the difference.
My footsteps slowed when I passed the classroom labeled Hair Care and Styling.
The door was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and let myself in.
Inside, I could see a group of students gathered around, focused intently on a demonstration.
This was a lesson on styling techniques, and from where I stood, it looked like they were learning how to cut and shape hair using methods I hadn’t seen before.
The instructor, a middle-aged woman with sharp features and graying hair, was explaining the proper techniques for cutting curly hair. Her voice was calm but authoritative, and I could tell the students were hanging on her every word.
“Remember,” she was saying, “with curly hair, you need to understand the natural curl pattern before you begin cutting. If you don’t, you can end up making the hair too short or uneven, and that’s not the look we want to go for.”
The students nodded, diligently taking notes.
I got a closer look at the model, and my anticipation dissolved a bit.
While she did have beautiful curls, they couldn’t be more than a 3A curl pattern.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, considering whether or not to go in.
I wanted to learn more, but this felt like a disconnect in these lessons for me.
As a Black woman, I spent a lot of time learning how to care for my own hair, its needs, and how to keep it healthy.
However, there was so little information available in mainstream beauty education that focused on Black hair.
European beauty standards like long, straight, glossy hair seemed to dominate every course and tutorial.
It wasn’t just frustrating; it felt isolating.
I wasn’t the only Black student at the academy, but even among my classmates, there was an undeniable gap. Natural hair care wasn’t given the attention it deserved—not in the way I knew it should be.
Granted, I wasn’t expecting an abundance of resources on Black hair care this far into Southeast Asia. But this was an international school, one that prided itself on catering to students from diverse backgrounds.
Was it really too much to ask for lessons that addressed the needs of people like me?
Still, what I was seeing now felt like a step closer. Techniques for curly hair were being taught, and though they were still firmly rooted in European standards of beauty, I had to know more.
Finally, I worked up the nerve. “Excuse me,” I said, raising my hand.
The instructor glanced up, her sharp features softening into a polite smile. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I was just watching your class,” I began, taking a step inside while the students watched in silence. “This lesson is about curly hair, right?”
She nodded, setting down a pair of shears. “That’s right. We were covering cutting and shaping techniques for curls. Are you interested in joining the class?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “But I was wondering… do you cover anything on natural hair?”
Her brows lifted slightly, and she tilted her head, studying me for a moment.
“We don’t have a specific course for it, no,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “But a lot of the principles we teach for curly hair can be applied to different textures. Are you looking for something more specialized?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’ve noticed that most of what you’re teaching here is focused on loosely curled hair. But with natural Black hair, like coily, kinky textures, it’s so different. The techniques don’t always translate.”
The instructor leaned against the counter, thoughtfully crossing her arms. She nodded slowly, taking in what I said.
“I get what you mean. A lot of the beauty industry tends to cater to one standard, and that doesn’t always work for everyone. Black hair is beautiful in its own right, but it’s different, and it’s often treated as something that needs to be ‘fixed’.”
I felt thankful that she understood.
“You’re right,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “It’s frustrating sometimes. I love my hair, but the way it’s treated, even in schools like this… it doesn’t always feel like it’s represented.”
The instructor nodded again. “You’re not wrong.
There’s a lot of education missing when it comes to Black hair care.
But look,” she said, moving to a counter where she had some tools laid out.
“I’m not going to pretend I’m an expert in natural hair.
I’ve worked with curly hair types before, but I haven’t had much training specifically on Black hair,” she explained.
“What I can do, though, is teach you the basics of cutting and styling curly hair in general, and you can build on that. Maybe you can develop your own technique based on what you learn here.”
I took a step closer, listening intently. “What do you mean, ‘develop my own technique’?”
“Well,” she said, her hands gesturing as she spoke, “Natural hair is unique. It’s dense, features a wide range of textures, and often requires a specialized approach.
My suggestion would be for you to take what you learn in this class, adapt it, and build on it.
Create your own methods based on your experience styling your own hair.
I know it might sound like a lot of work, but that’s how innovation happens. ”
I thought about it.
“So you’re saying I can learn the basics from you and then go from there?” I repeated her words so that I could process them.
“Exactly,” she replied, a small smile on her face. “That way, you’re not just following some pre-defined standard, you’re creating something that works for your future clients.”
Future clients.
I couldn’t help but smile at the thought. The more I thought about it, the more the idea excited me. “That sounds amazing, actually. I really appreciate you being open to teaching me.”
She nodded. “Of course. It’s important to me that everyone feels included in the beauty world. Just remember to take your time, experiment, and don’t be afraid to make mistakes. You’ll find your own path.”
“I appreciate you saying that.” I offered my hand. “My name’s Elliot, by the way.”
“Welcome, Elliot. I’m Sunday. I’m glad to have you join us. Why don’t you join everyone else, and I’ll continue the demonstration?”
I glanced around the classroom at the sea of confused faces, realizing I had disrupted their lesson. Offering a sheepish smile, I mumbled an apology and quietly slipped in to join the rest of the group.
?
I hesitated for a moment after knocking on Esther’s door, adjusting the bag on my shoulder. Laughter and faint music drifted through the door, making me second-guess if I should have come. It sounded like she already had company, and I didn’t want to intrude.
Just as I was debating whether to turn around, the door swung open.
“E! You made it!” Esther’s bright smile greeted me before I could even respond. “Come in, come in!”
I stepped inside, the smell of lavender incense mingling with the faint aroma of takeout wafting through the small apartment.
Her space was as inviting as ever, filled with soft lighting, mismatched cushions, and little trinkets from her travels.
But my gaze was immediately drawn to the woman sprawled on the couch.
She looked like some picture-perfect influencer, the kind of person who made you feel underdressed just by existing.
Her makeup was flawless, not a single smudge or blemish.
And it all blended seamlessly into her smooth, brown skin.
Her dark hair was pressed as pin-straight to match her sleek, tailored outfit, completed with a bag that probably cost more than my rent back home.
It screamed effortless wealth.
She was scrolling on her phone, her manicured fingers tapping the screen, but her eyes flicked to me as I walked in.
“Hope, this is Elliot,” Esther said brightly, shutting the door behind me. “Elliot, Hope.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, forcing a polite smile.
“Likewise,” Hope said, glancing at me briefly. Her smile was small and controlled, the kind you’d give when you were humoring someone. “Esther’s mentioned you. I was wondering when I’d finally get to meet her latest project.”
I blinked, unsure if I’d heard her correctly. Project?
Esther let out a nervous laugh, her hand waving in the air as if to brush away the comment. “Hope, stop it. Elliot is my friend.”
Hope shrugged, her manicured nails catching the light as she shifted on the couch.
“Of course, just teasing,” she said, her tone overly sweet but sharp enough to cut. “You must be pretty brave, coming all the way out here for…what was it again? Nail art?”
I felt the muscles in my jaw tighten, but I kept my expression neutral. It was clear from the way she spoke that she didn’t mean ‘brave’ as a compliment.
Still, some part of me wanted her to like me. So I stiffened my lip and tried again to win her approval.
“Yeah, very brave,” I replied evenly, forcing my voice to sound casual. “But I’ve decided nail art isn’t for me, so I’m transferring to Hair Care and Styling.”
“Well,” Hope said, her eyes scanning me up and down like she was sizing me up. “It’s good to try new things. Even if the first thing didn’t work out, I’m sure this one will, right?”
The words landed like a subtle jab, and for a moment, I debated whether to respond or let it slide. Before I could decide, Esther jumped in, her voice a little louder than usual.
“Elliot is trying. She’s doing great here,” she said, her tone firm and protective. She shot me a quick, reassuring glance. “She’s young, and she’s figuring out her next steps, and I’m proud of her. Don’t knock her confidence.”
“I’m not! I’m just being real,” Hope replied smoothly, crossing her legs and leaning back into the cushions. Her tone was sweet as honey, but there was something undeniably smug in the way she spoke. “How old are you, sweetie?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Oh, Esther. She’s a baby,” Hope pouted.
I glanced at Esther, who gave me an apologetic look as she moved to sit on the armrest of the couch. “We’re only thirty, Hope. You make us sound like aunties.”
“We might as well be,” Hope sighed.
Waving me over, she gestured to the seat in front of her for me to join them. I shifted awkwardly, finally settling into the chair opposite Hope, but the tension in the room didn’t ease.
“So, Elliot,” Hope said after a long silence, her phone now abandoned on the coffee table. “What made you come to Thailand, anyway? And for beauty school? Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing people pack up their lives for.”
Her question was framed innocently enough, but the subtle edge in her voice made it clear she didn’t think much of my decision.
I smiled tightly. “I wanted to try something new. I needed to get out of Houston, so I decided this would be a good place to start. It seemed like a good way to push myself out of my comfort zone.”
Hope tilted her head, her expression unreadable.
“Interesting,” she said, dragging out the word like it meant something else entirely. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find your thing eventually.”
Did she not hear me say I was changing to Hair Care and Styling? Or was she trying to be funny?
I opened my mouth to respond, but Esther jumped in again. “Hope, stop being nosy! She’s had a long day. Let me get you something to drink, E. Tea? Juice?”
“Tea would be great,” I said, grateful for the distraction. Though a shot would be better.
Esther smiled and headed toward the kitchen, leaving me alone with Hope.
Hope studied me for a moment, her perfectly arched brows furrowing just slightly. “So, do you plan to stay here long?” she asked in a light but pointed voice.
I met her gaze, determined not to let her get under my skin.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I said simply.
She gave a small, almost pitying smile. “Of course.”
I’ve endured enough of this line of questioning, I thought. Maybe it was time to put her in the hot seat.
“What about you, Hope? Why are you in Thailand?” I asked, trying to sound casual but already bracing myself for whatever witty remark she had lined up.
“I’m here on vacation. My father owns a resort on the beach,” she replied with a nonchalant wave of her hand as if that kind of luxury was normal.
Of course, he does.
“Nice. I think Es mentioned that before. How do you know, Esther?”
“We met online,” she said, leaning back like she owned the place. “We’re on a discussion board for future Black business owners. I organized a trip for some of the girls, and Hope stood out the most. We remained close.”
“You own a business?” I asked, genuinely curious despite her attitude.
“Future, Elliot,” she corrected, dragging out the word with a slow, pointed tone.
I shot her a look, tired of the passive-aggressive jabs. She smirked, clearly amused by how easily she got a reaction from me.
“Hmm, what kind of business do you plan on starting?” I asked, forcing myself to keep my voice steady.
She shrugged and let out a long sigh like the question itself was exhausting. “Don’t know yet. Haven’t got any ideas.”
I scoffed, unable to help myself. “And you’re giving me a hard time?”
I expected another snarky comeback, but instead, she laughed—a short, genuine laugh that caught me off guard.
“I guess you’re right,” she admitted, shaking her head. “We both need to figure our shit out.”
Her honesty surprised me. I chuckled, unsure if this was a rare truce or a brief moment of vulnerability.
“I guess we do.”
A moment later, Esther returned with a steaming mug of tea, handing it to me with a warm smile.
“Here you go, E,” she said, sitting down beside me.
“Thanks,” I said, gripping the mug tightly.
Hope picked up her phone again, scrolling absentmindedly, but I could feel her eyes flicking back to me every now and then.
I wondered what could possibly be going through her mind as I made a mental note to keep an eye on Hope.