The bathroom smelled like coconut conditioner and desperation. Walker sat on a tiny velvet stool in front of you, his long legs folded like a grasshopper's, a towel around his shoulders. His usually effortless blond curls had declared war on him today — frizzing in odd directions, one clump sticking straight up like a question mark.

He was holding a wide-tooth comb in one hand like he was about to defuse a bomb. On the bathroom counter: three different curl creams, a spray bottle, and a jar of something labeled "DO NOT USE IF RUSHING."