Her eyes widen and she shivers slightly. “You’re impossible,” she says.

“It’s possible,” I say.

She laughs, and her black eyes sparkle at me. “What should we do now?” she asks.

I need to get my hair cut and I need to get the pouch and deposit slips to my dad. I want to do neither of these things. What I want to do is find someplace cozy and cozy up with her. But. The pouch needs to be delivered. I ask her if she’s up for a trip to Harlem and she agrees. Really, this is the absolute last thing I should be doing. If there are worse ideas than this, I don’t know what they are. My dad’s just going to freak her out. She’s going to meet him and imagine that he’s what I’ll be like in fifty years, and then she’ll go flying for the hills because that’s what I would do in her place.

My dad’s a weird guy. I say weird but what I mean is epically fucking strange. First, he doesn’t really talk to anyone except customers. This includes me and Charlie. Unless berating counts as talking. If berating counts, then he’s said more to Charlie this past summer and fall than he has in nineteen years. I may be exaggerating, but only slightly.

I don’t know how I’m going to explain Natasha to him or Charlie. Well, Charlie I don’t really care about, but my dad will notice her. He’ll know something’s up in the same way he always knows which customer is going to shoplift or who’s good for an IOU and who’s not.

Later tonight at dinner, he’ll say something to my mom in Korean in the voice he uses to complain about Americans. I don’t really want either of them involved in this yet. We’re not ready for that kind of pressure.

Natasha says that all families are strange, and it’s true. I’ll have to ask her more about her family later after we do this thing. We descend into the subway.

“Get ready,” I say.

HARLEM IS ONLY A TWENTY-FIVE-MINUTE subway ride from where we were, but it’s like we’ve gone to a different country. The skyscrapers have been replaced by small, closely packed stores with bright awnings. The air smells brighter, less like a city and more like a neighborhood. Almost everyone on the street is black.

Daniel doesn’t say anything as we walk along Martin Luther King Boulevard toward his parents’ store. He slows down when we pass by an empty storefront with a huge FOR RENT sign and a pawnshop with a green awning. Finally we stop in front of a black hair care and beauty supply store.

It’s called Black Hair Care. I’ve been into lots of these. “Go down the street to the beauty supply and pick up some relaxer for me,” says my mother every two months or so.

It’s a thing. Everyone knows it’s a thing how all the black hair care places are owned by Koreans and what an injustice that is. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it when Daniel said they owned a store.

I can’t see inside because the windows are covered with old, sun-faded posters of smiling and suited black women all with the same chemically treated hairstyle. Apparently—according to these posters, at least—only certain hairstyles are allowed to attend board meetings. Even my mom is guilty of this kind of sentiment. She wasn’t happy when I decided to wear an Afro, saying that it isn’t professional-looking. But I like my big Afro. I also liked when my hair was longer and relaxed. I’m happy to have choices. They’re mine to make.

Next to me, Daniel is so nervous he’s vibrating. I wonder if it’s because I’m going to meet his dad, or because of the politics of his parents’ owning this store. He faces me and tugs his tie from side to side, as if it’s been too tight this whole time.

“So my dad’s really—” He stops and starts again. “And my brother’s really—”

His eyes are everywhere except on mine and his voice is strained, probably because he’s trying to speak without breathing.

“Maybe you could just wait out here,” he says, finally getting an entire sentence out.

At first I don’t really think anything of it. I figure everyone’s embarrassed by their family. I’m embarrassed about mine. Well, my father, at least. In Daniel’s place, I’d do the same thing. My cheating ex, Rob, never met my father. It was just easier. No listening to my father’s too-thick, fake American accent. No watching him try to find an opening so he can talk about himself and all his plans for the future and how he’s going to be famous one day.

We’re standing just in front of the store when two black teenage girls walk out laughing with each other. Another woman, also black, walks in.

It occurs to me that maybe he’s not embarrassed about his family. Maybe he’s embarrassed about me. Or maybe he’s afraid his parents will be ashamed of me. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.

America’s not really a melting pot. It’s more like one of those divided metal plates with separate sections for starch, meat, and veggies. I’m looking at him and he’s still not looking at me. Suddenly we’re having a moment I didn’t expect.

IN FIFTEENTH-CENTURY AFRICAN CIVILIZATIONS, hairstyles were markers of identity. Hairstyle could indicate everything from tribe or family background to religion to social status. Elaborate hairstyles designated power and wealth. A subdued style could be a sign that you were in a state of mourning. More than that, hair could have spiritual importance. Because it’s on your head—the highest part of your body and closest to the skies—many Africans viewed it as a passageway for spirits to the soul, a way to interact with God.