My Aunt Bernice had a little beauty shop on the east side of Atlanta.
Two chairs, one sink, a radio in the corner, and a hand-painted sign my cousin made for her in 1983. Women came in for hair, but most of them stayed because Bernice listened. She knew whose son was in trouble, whose mother was sick, who needed a ride to church, and who just needed ten quiet minutes away from home.
She kept peppermints in a glass bowl and never let anyone leave crying if she could help it.
She was not famous. She did not want to be. But a lot of women walked out of that shop standing a little straighter.