Chapter 1

Caroline

I adjust my navy blue wrap dress in the bathroom mirror, fluffing my curls with nervous fingers. The hotel ballroom hosting the Black Beauty Business Network event pulses with energy just beyond these doors. My small silver name tag feels heavy: "Caroline Watson - Future Entrepreneur."

Not quite there yet. Not even close.

I take a deep breath and step back into the fray of successful Black women who've already made it—salon owners, beauty product developers, makeup artists with celebrity clients. Women who took their dreams and built them into reality while I'm still doing hair at someone else's salon in Arlington.

"Girl, you've got to try these crab puffs," says a woman in a stunning yellow pantsuit, offering me the appetizer tray. "I'm Denise, Denise Taylor. Golden Hour Salon in Baltimore."

"Caroline Watson." I take a crab puff to be polite. "I work at Curl Central in Arlington, but someday I want my own place."

"Someday? Honey, we speak things into existence in this room." Denise's eyes sparkle. "Say it with your chest. What's your salon called?"

I hesitate. I've only whispered this name to myself. "Watson's Wonder. A full-service salon and boutique where women walk in feeling tired and leave feeling powerful."

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Denise clinks her water glass against mine. "How long you been planning?"

"Since forever. But I'm still living with my parents in Springfield, saving every penny. The DC metro area isn't cheap."

"Springfield? That's what, twenty minutes outside the city?"

"On a good traffic day, which doesn't exist." I laugh. "My dad wants me to stick with the stable job I have, says the economy's too unpredictable for new businesses."

A tall woman with immaculate box braids joins our circle. "Your daddy sounds like mine fifteen years ago. Now he's my accountant. I'm Latrice."

"Latrice owns four locations now," Denise adds, clearly impressed.

My eyes widen. "Four? How did you—"

"Connections." Latrice hands me her business card. "This room is full of women who can help you. That man over there approves loans specifically for Black-owned businesses. Those three ladies run a beauty incubator program in Richmond. And Denise here? She mentors new salon owners."

"I do." Denise nods. "First Saturday of every month. Free workshops."

I slip her card into my clutch like it's made of gold. "I can't believe I almost didn't come tonight."

"Most success stories start with showing up somewhere uncomfortable," Latrice says. "Where exactly are you in your business journey?"

"Embarrassingly early. I have about eight thousand saved, a business plan draft, and a Pinterest board full of salon décor ideas." I laugh, but neither woman joins me.

"That's eight thousand more than I had when I started," Denise says seriously, leaning in closer. Her perfume—something expensive and subtle—wafts between us. "And Springfield's got lower commercial rents than Arlington or Alexandria. You'd be surprised how much further your dollar stretches just a few miles out."

"You've researched locations?" Latrice asks, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against her champagne flute. The diamonds on her fingers catch the light, reminding me of exactly how successful she is.

"Every strip mall within twenty miles of my parents' house," I admit, feeling a wave of pride at my thoroughness. "I've got a spreadsheet comparing square footage costs, visibility from main roads, demographics of surrounding neighborhoods, even foot traffic patterns."

"Smart girl." Denise nods approvingly, her eyes lighting up. "Damn, you're more prepared than half the entrepreneurs I mentor. Now, who've you talked to about micro-loans? There's a program specifically for women of color that doesn't require the same credit history as traditional banks."

The conversation shifts into specifics—funding opportunities I'd never even heard of, license requirements that could trip up new salon owners, vendor relationships that could save me thousands in startup costs. I scramble to take notes on my phone, my fingers flying across the screen, afraid I'll miss something crucial.

"The beauty supply chain is where they get you," Latrice explains, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I can introduce you to my wholesale guy. He'll cut you a deal if you mention my name."

What was supposed to be networking small talk has turned into an impromptu business coaching session worth thousands in consulting fees. These women aren't just making empty promises to "do lunch sometime" before ghosting me—they're making actual plans, sharing actual resources, treating my dream with the same seriousness they give their own businesses. I feel a knot in my throat as I realize this is what real mentorship looks like.

"You need to watch those non-compete clauses in salon employment contracts," Latrice warns, eyebrows raised. "My first stylist opened her own spot three blocks from mine and took half my clients."

I grimace, adding another note to my already full phone. "My boss has one of those. I'd have to wait six months after quitting before opening within a ten-mile radius."

"That's why you scout locations now," Denise taps my arm knowingly. "And start building your social media presence separately from the salon's. Your personal brand matters."

Two hours fly by as we migrate from the appetizer table to a corner seating area. More women join our circle—a skincare line founder, a salon franchise owner, even a beauty school director. Each shares battle stories that simultaneously terrify and inspire me.

"My first location flooded two weeks after opening," says the franchise owner, shaking her head. "Insurance fought me for six months before paying out."

"My product manufacturer changed my formula without telling me," adds the skincare founder. "Had customers breaking out in hives and, of course, I took all of the blame. My reputation took a massive hit, too."

I'm scribbling furiously, creating a mental checklist of potential disasters to prepare for. The pressure to succeed weighs heavily. These women overcame serious setbacks, and they had more resources than I do. How will I manage?

"You look overwhelmed, honey," Denise notices, touching my shoulder. "Don't be. We're not trying to scare you."

"Just prepare you," Latrice adds. "Black women entrepreneurs don't get second chances like some folks. We have to get it right."

I nod, swallowing hard. "I appreciate the honesty. Better to know now than learn the hard way."

"That's the spirit," the beauty school director says. "And remember—everyone in this room has your back. We lift as we climb."

The event coordinator announces the final networking session is ending. People exchange last-minute business cards and promises to connect. I've collected fifteen cards and given out every one of mine—the simple ones I printed at home that suddenly seem inadequate.

"Don't forget," Denise says, giving me a quick hug. "First Saturday. My workshop. And text me that business plan so I can review it."

"I will. Thank you, all of you. This meant everything to me."

Walking to my car in the hotel parking garage, my mind races faster than my feet. The February night air is crisp against my face as I unlock my used Honda Civic, the car I've kept running for eight years because every repair is cheaper than a car payment.

Inside, I don't start the engine immediately. Instead, I pull out my notebook and begin scrawling action items while they're still fresh. My hand cramps from writing so quickly, but I can't stop. For the first time, Watson's Wonder feels less like a fantasy and more like an inevitability. The mountain of challenges ahead doesn't seem quite so impossible now that I know others have climbed it—women who look like me, who started with less than I have.

I finally start the car, but instead of heading home, I drive toward Springfield's main commercial district. It's nearly 10 PM, but I slow down at each strip mall, each vacant storefront, imagining my salon's sign hanging outside. The empty buildings aren't just empty spaces anymore. They're possibilities, a tangible vision that is going to come to life one day.

My father's cautious voice echoes in my head: "The economy's unpredictable. Keep the stable job."

But tonight, a chorus of successful Black women's voices speaks louder: "We speak things into existence in this room."

I make a final turn toward home, my resolve hardening with each mile. Tomorrow isn't just another day at someone else's salon. It's day one of building mine.