Free Wearing My Halo Tilted by Stephanie Perry Moore

had to learn how to follow Him.
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    I was so excited, and I had only an hour to get ready for the big night: the premiere of the play. Everything I had in my suitcases I hated. I needed a completely new wardrobe but lack of money wouldn’t allow that to happen. Though I was getting a small mint, it took weeks for it to be sent from the production company, to my agent, then on to me.
    My hair couldn’t wait for my bank account to rise. Looking in the mirror in my completely clean bathroom, I wondered what in the world I could do to make my hair look better than it was. Thankfully, I had gotten a perm six days before, but my regular hair day was on Thursday. I hadn’t noticed it before flying, but I had big flakes all up in the front of my bob haircut. I was thankful that I hadn’t gotten it all cut off because I was able to wash it quickly and pull it all back with some gel. It was a chic look, not the nicest, but definitely not shabby either. Just a touch of class.
    I found my black dress, which was fitted at the top but flared out at the waist with a cute little sash. It was black on one side, brown on the other, and the sleeves—oh, the sleeves—were completely stylish as they flared out on both sides, almost as long as my skirt. Right at my chest there was a nice little circle cut out. Nothing was revealed, but it would definitely tempt any man that looked my way. They’d say, “She looks hot.” When I turned around in the mirror and saw three rolls in my back, I realized maybe my yucky body was the reason why Dillon didn’t care too much to keep himself in shape for me.
    I gotta stop thinking about him, I told myself, as I hit my head with a quick thump. Five minutes before six, my telephone rang. It couldn’t have been my husband; he didn’t have a clue as to where I was. It must be someone with the play who was going to be my ride, wanting to know if I was ready. This was cool. Black folks running a little early. I was diggin’ this. To my satisfaction I was right.
    â€œHey, Ms. Writer, this is Melvin Jenkins, but you can call me Mel. We’re so glad to have you,” the deep, husky, baritone-sounding voice said.
    Off that I could tell this guy was friendly. That made my chest, that was beating way too fast, as if I had just come from running a marathon, slow down a pace or two. I had to relax and not be nervous.
    â€œI’m running a little early because I know y’all black women. I needed to call you and let you know that the bus was going to be pulling out in five.”
    â€œThe whole cast is here at the Ritz?” I said, quite surprised that the producers of the play were spending those kind of bucks. I had been affiliated with some black plays before. When I was in college, I toured for six months with one. We stayed at so many Motel 6s and Days Inns that the light was left on for us.
    â€œYeah, but I mean, you got your own place. Most of the folks are four to a room! You ready?”
    â€œYeah,” I said with a little confidence.
    â€œCool. It’ll be good to meet you. Come on down. Let’s rap.”
    After hanging up the phone, I went back into the bathroom. Quickly, I put on a girdle to hide some of my rolls and made sure I had on the cutest jewelry I owned. I splashed a little peppermint oil over my body and knelt by the tub to talk to the Lord.
    â€œFather,” I cried, “this is a gospel play, but I don’t know if I’m really out here doing Your work. I kinda feel distant from You now. Please calm me down. Stay with me, Lord. And Lord, I just pray also for my husband and my girls. You be to them what I can’t right now. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
    â€œCould you hold the elevator please?” I yelled before it closed, bringing my untamed side to this upscale place.
    My five minutes had turned into six, after I pampered myself a little more and prayed. I could only see part of the