I was trying to decide between two outfits: a minidress in bright yellow with a matching floral sash, or a sleek pants suit with threaded gold accents. Deciding on sex appeal over sophistication, I threw the suit towards my closet and pulled the mini over my head. The sash I tossed over my shoulders carelessly.

Padding to the bathroom in my stocking feet, I prepared to put on the finishing touches before I left. My short brown crop had already been wet set; the back was tapered and held in place with a little gel for control. I lined my eyes carefully with a brown pencil and brushed my long lashes with off-black mascara. It took me a while to decide on which lipstick I wanted to use. The winner was a rich sepia brown, which I glazed over with a gold-kissed gloss.

A glance at the mirror made me grin. Go Nicole, it's your birthday, go Nicole! I never had any problems with low self-esteem. I knew I was cute.

Unfortunately, cute wasn't going to pay my bills. I had been out of work for six weeks, and my mother's patience was wearing thin. You'd think that since I was her only child, she'd cut me some slack. But when she called day before yesterday and told me I'd have to come up with my own rent money for April, I hit the roof.

"Mama, I'm trying the best I can!"

"I believe you, Nikki. But you are a grown woman. As you've proven to me time and time again, you can support yourself. I think it would be an insult to your intelligence if I kept giving you handouts as if you were a charity case."

"Have I ever asked you for money just for the hell of it? It's not like I'm sitting at home on my butt. I'm trying to find a job."

"No, Nikki. You're not. There was nothing wrong with the job you left except that you weren't patient enough to stick it out. Have they hired an operator to replace you?"

"You know they have, Mama."

"Then until you can find something else, you need to hustle. Do hair out of your kitchen. Call Manpower and see if you can get a temporary position. You have a couple of weeks until the first; see what you can do."

"Tell you what. Why don't I just ask Reg to give me a loan?" I snapped. That always got Mama to open the purse strings. A single mother and successful entrepreneur, she couldn't stand to think of her daughter as a "kept" woman.

"Well, why don't you do that, Nicole? I'm sure Mr. Patten doesn't want his lady out on the street."

I ask you, what kind of mother is that? Then she had the nerve to send me this little rinky-dink birthday card with a $50 Saks Fifth Avenue gift certificate. What in the hell can you get from Saks for that? Or even Target?

My situation was getting desperate. When my career as a psychic and New Age book vendor didn't take off, I tried this hair thing instead. I'd always kept my hair laid, and my friends and sorors always asked me to do theirs whenever something special came up. People were complimenting my cuts and designs even before I got out of high school.

When I received my cosmetology and nail tech licenses in late `94, I moved to Detroit to do an apprenticeship at L'Pierce. At John Gooden's salon, I washed a lot of heads and did a lot of observation. I watched as master stylists created show masterpieces, career coifs, and elegant braids. Then I enrolled at Dudley Cosmetology University in Virginia for an intensive two-week seminar on total hair care.

By last summer, I was ready to take on the Black Mecca, Atlanta. I could see the beauty magazine interviews with "Nicole Ferguson, Stylist to the Stars". My ego sent me to the doorsteps of the hottest salons in Atlanta. I pounded the pavement for three months, and only ended up with one offer for all my trouble. As a shampoo girl.

I ended up renting a chair at Fades N' Waves Unisex Hair Salon. Ghetto. After six months of bouncing checks, Christmas tree ponytails, and being cussed out because I couldn't make them all look like Toni Braxton, I quit. About a dozen of my regular customers came to the house at first, but complained when my kitchen sink gave them a crook in the neck.

"Much as you charging, you need to be able to offer salon treatment," one of my clients, Tatiana, grumbled.

"Feel free to go elsewhere," I said sweetly.

She did. So did eight of the other girls. That left me with three customers: a weave, a jheri curl, and braids. Since I only see them once every four to six weeks, I had a big problem.

My friends and sorors were so used to me doing their hair for free until when I did finally get licensed, they weren't trying to pay me. The only one who will give me something is Cherie, but she isn't in town often enough to count.

Snapping out of my reverie, I looked down at my watch. Ten to eight. It was time to get this show on the road.

I pursed my lips in the mirror, thinking of what Mama had said. Then I thought about my boo.

Reginald Patten. We'd been dating off and on for about three years. He was faithful enough to observe the three major holidays (Christmas, Valentine's, and my birthday) with gifts, and there were the occasional "no-occasion" gifts. If I need money, he’s always there. There had never been a situation where he had to bail me out, though. I'd always prided myself on being self-sufficient.

I packed up my makeup and placed the case under the sink. Reaching towards the back, I extracted a Kroger bag and pulled out of a box of Trojans.

Hey. Maybe my looks wouldn't pay the bills... but Women's Lib wouldn't, either.

Rochelle was nice enough to let me drop her off at Q's and drive her Explorer to The Green Room in Stone Mountain, since he's only about ten minutes away from it. I was supposed to meet Reg there at nine, but since I got a run in my stockings, I had to stop at Walgreens and take care of business.

Thinking up a good excuse, I raced toward the front door of the club. Something was strange. I’d never been here before, but--

"Surprise!"

Confetti fell down over my eyes. It was so corny that I had to laugh. A surprise party? I looked at the familiar faces around the urban contemporary club and decided that maybe it wasn't so corny. After all, I was surprised.

Reg came up to me with a sheepish grin on his face to lead me away from the door and into the crowd. I took in the silver party hats and balloons, the table laden with gifts. I looked at him. He could only smile. "Happy birthday."

He and I were the same height, five eleven. My head jutted forward to peck his cheek. "I'm going to get you for this."

"It wasn't my idea."

"What do you mean? You called me and said you were supposed to meet someone from the hospital."

"Think about it, baby. Am I the surprise party type?"

"No, but..."

He sighed with mock helplessness. "I was used." When I cracked up, he did too. "I had to set you up."

"Oh? Then whose brainchild was this?"

I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw--

"Cherie!"

"Who else would have the nerve?" she laughed, apparently very pleased with herself.

We hugged tightly. Ever since she'd moved out from Janet's in early `94 I hadn't seen as much of her. Although I was glad that she'd gotten a chance to achieve her dreams, I still missed her. In spite of our differences in lifestyle and opinion, when the chips were down she would always be my best friend.

The gospel choir she originally sang with, A Chord, struggled until 1993 when they released He Is Risen: Easter Sunday 1993, Live in Atlanta. That went gold, and two of the singles, "Beloved" and "Perfect Peace" went platinum. Cherie wrote both songs.

Their next offering, Free Indeed: Fourth of July 1994, Live in D.C., just missed the platinum mark. "Free Indeed" was an understatement. Most of the songs on the album had a decidedly hip-hop, jazz, alternative soul, or R&B flava to them. It almost aroused as much controversy in the gospel world that year as Kirk Franklin would in `96. Older Christians called A Chord "sellouts". Young Christians blasted it from the Alpines in their rides and the Discmans in their ears. And I’m not religious, but I still have that CD in my car.

Then Cherie went solo in the spring of `95 with The Rose and the Lily. One of the singles, "Make Me Over", crossed over into mainstream jazz. Some of the other singers from A Chord did just as well with their own solo efforts. Cherie was also in high demand as a songwriter, arranger, and producer, and she worked with some of the biggest names in gospel music.

But they were still A Chord, and they all came back together to do There Is A Fountain: One Lord, One Faith, One Baptism. They recorded that one while they accompanied their pastor on a mission trip to Africa and the Middle East last summer. Telling the gospel through different types of music, it was still on the Billboard charts.

Their founder and minister of music, William Eugene, passed away from a heart attack in December while A Chord was on tour. They all returned to Atlanta, and Cherie seemed distraught for a while, even though she tried to hide it.

If all that weren't enough, Billy Eugene had left quite a few strings untied. Prior to his death, he had been the minister of music for the 12,000-plus member New Philadelphia Ministries Baptist Church. He was the head of In One A Chord Productions. He was in the process of pitching a very lucrative project to the Big Dogs, namely, the board of directors of the conglomerate that owned Testimony, Maritime Distribution Group.

The day after they put Billy in the ground, Claude Jackson became New Philadelphia's minister of music. My best friend, only twenty-four, found herself at the helm of In One A Chord Productions. On the same day I left Fades N' Waves, she, Claude and the president of Testimony Records went to the MDG board meeting Billy had set up six months before. The result: this June Testimony Live! would premiere on the Black Cable Network.

"Sort of like "Soul Train" for your soul," she'd said.

I held her out at arm's length. She still was the same Cherie, even though she was sporting an ankle length Versace dress. I still couldn't get used to seeing her decked out in all these expensive clothes, but I don't know why. She's been to the Grammys and the Dove Awards once and the Stellar Awards twice. Never has she come home empty-handed. Each time she wore a dress I couldn't afford even during the Easter salon rush.

I'm happy for her. After everything that she's gone through in her life, she deserves to have all her dreams come true.

"I can't believe that you did this, Cher. Girlfriend, this is not your usual style," I said. It wasn't. Cherie, like all of the A Chord crew, really tried hard to practice what they preached. An urban contemporary dance club wasn't the kind of venue that Testimony Music artists frequented.

"You're right. I started to have it in one of the banquet rooms at New Philadelphia, but your Reg told me it would be easier to get you here. Knowing how allergic you are to church, I agreed. But we’re watching the bar, and there are certain songs you're just not going to hear tonight. Other than that, enjoy."

I looked up at my boyfriend. "I'm sorry, Reginald, but I have to be honest with you. I love this woman with my whole heart."

Three of my line sisters who live in the Atlanta area, Keya Jones, Pamela Fischer and LaTaryn Phillips rushed over to give their birthday greetings. Following close behind was Stacia Dawson, Angelo's wife and an old friend of ours.

Reginald wasn't having it. He got my attention from amidst the squealing and rapid-fire chatter.

"I'll leave you all alone to... should I say, bond?"

Cherie got the mic from the DJ a little after ten.

"Let me have everyone's attention. Tonight is a special night. We're gathered here to celebrate the twenty-fifth "silver" birthday of our friend and our sister Nicole Sydney Ferguson. Twenty-five years ago today in Hutzel Hospital in Detroit, a ray of sunshine came into the world. Eight years later, she came into my life. I wish everyone could be blessed to know her like I do."

I cheesed. Reg put his arm around me possessively. "We've chosen different paths for our lives. Although we haven't always seen eye to eye on things, she is just as much my best friend as the day she took me under her wing when I was the new kid in school. So Nikki, this is for you."

The minute Cherie's rich voice hit my ears I closed my eyes. She always could sang, even when we were little. We used to talk about being famous all the time. She was going to be an award winning singer. I wanted to be a bestselling writer.

Now millions had heard Cherie's voice over the airwaves and on their stereos. The love story that I wanted to write one day, however, was still locked up inside of me.

First she sang a hit gospel jazz number, "So Grateful". It had been on her first solo album. Then she led everyone in the birthday song. After they all did the "how old are you" verse they insisted that I take the microphone for a solo.

"I'm twenty-five, this party is live... after hearing my singing, I’m surprised you’re still alive!" Everyone laughed. "Thanks so much, you guys. I haven't felt this loved in a long time. I see all the gifts piled up in the corner by that sheet cake. All I can say is I hope there's some money in there. If not, Sister Cherie will put a collection plate by the door, and you can drop your love gifts on your way out. Line the birthday girl's pockets, why don't you?"

Cherie grabbed the mic away from me. "Why don't we see what's in those gifts before we lift the evening offering?"

I ended up having a ball. On the dance floor, I got my groove on. I mingled. I tripped out with everyone. I introduced my new boyfriend. Reg was very attentive, and I was proud to be with him. Together, we were the best couple in the place. Sometimes I'd just look at him either nearby or across the room, admiring the way he filled his suit. I'd watch his hands move in syncopation with his mouth as he talked. He spoke with his hands. Remembering what those hands and that mouth did to me when we were alone cause little shivers to go up my spine.

The only potential disaster arose while I was unwrapping gifts. Later, I learned that word of my surprise party had gone through the grapevine. Cherie got in touch with Reg, who talked to his frat brother Angelo Dawson, who got in touch with everyone else.

For some reason, Rochelle didn't know that Cherie was behind the party. So around ten-thirty, she sashayed into the club with Q. They got sidetracked by Angelo, Stacia, and a couple of others, but I waved at my roommate to come over. Hey, she had a gift in her hand.

Cherie was standing with her back to me, running her mouth with Keya, Reg and Reg's cousin Roderick. Rochelle started towards the gift table. She didn't see Cherie until she was within five feet of us. When she did, she ducked out of the way and began to make a beeline for the dance floor.

I glanced in that direction and saw Kenya Adams and Ayana Denton beckoning for Rochelle. Kenya loves to gossip, and Ayana isn't my cup of tea. They're friends of our friends, so they always end up showing up at things. Knowing that some mess was going to start if I didn't intervene, I dropped the card I had been skimming and mumbled to Reg that I had to use the ladies room.

Fate was kind. I stopped Rochelle in the middle of the dance floor.

"That's funny. I thought you were coming to pay tribute to the birthday queen." I took the gift box from her. It was light. "Let's take a break from the excitement. You look like you need a time out."

We made it to the ladies' room. It was empty. To be a public facility, it was pretty nice. No offensive smells, no dirty towels littering the floor. There were silk plants on the vanity, and even a choice of automatic dryers or paper towels.

"I really have to go," I told her, handing her the box again, going into an empty stall and locking it. "Meanwhile, tell me what's up with you."

"Girl, you know what! What the hell is she doing here?"

"Oh, come on. Are you really that insecure? Look, they haven't said anything to each other and probably won't."

"Nicole, don't be so damn naive. She's still after him. Why else would she come around after all this time?"

Ahh. Sweet relief. "It's my birthday. She's my best friend."

"Yeah. Ever since she got all big and famous, how much do you have in common with her? I think she's a hypocrite. Every time the media calls her `the next CeCe' I want to throw up. Did you know she sends his son Christmas and birthday gifts?"

"Yes, Rochelle. Every time somebody from the old posse gets married or we have a party, we go through this all over again. Remember last July at Angelo and Stacia's wedding? You brought all this up, and they didn't even say two words to each other. Look, baby, you've been with Quentin off and on for two and a half years. Don't you think it's time to exhale?"

"Humph. All I know is that if she don't start none..."

"Won't be none," I snapped back, coming out to the stall and going to the sink to wash my hands. "You should be ashamed of yourself for jumping to conclusions."

"Yeah, well, you know I love him. I can't help it if I'm a little selfish when it comes to him. My grandmama always says, `An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.'"

That settled, we spent a few moments styling our hair and reapplying lipstick before we headed back to the dance floor.

Continued...

Back to Gallery Main Menu