Denise left with the note clutched in her hand. She found a supplement that combined all three ingredients—a gummy, actually, which she appreciated because she was tired of choking down horse pills.

The first two weeks, nothing seemed different. She almost gave up.

Then, during week three, she noticed something strange. Her scalp felt different. Less tight. Like the skin itself was loosening.

Week five: Her stylist, who'd been doing her hair for twelve years, set down her comb mid-appointment. "Denise. What are you doing differently?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your edges. There's baby hairs here that weren't here last month."

Denise had to see for herself. She grabbed the handheld mirror. Her stylist was right. Tiny, soft hairs were sprouting along her hairline—areas that had been bare for years.

By month three, the change was undeniable. The thin patches at her temples were filling in. Her hair felt thicker when she ran her fingers through it. Her ponytail had actual volume.

But the moment that broke her came at month four. Her 23-year-old daughter stopped by unexpectedly and found Denise styling her hair without a wig.

"Mama..." she said, her voice cracking. "Your hair."

Denise turned from the mirror, tears already forming. "Baby, I know."

"It's beautiful. It looks like old pictures of you. Before..."

"Before thirty-one years of relaxers."

They held each other and cried—not tears of sadness, but something more complicated. Relief. Grief for all the lost years. And hope that maybe, finally, the damage could be undone.