No Line Itis

A Story where Hope Starts with the Hairline

Corey always dressed like he was in charge.

Pressed slacks. Crease included. Brown leather oxfords that clicked like he was tap dancing on marble floors. Skin like polished mahogany. Words crisp enough to end in periods.

But nobody respected him.

His team, a bunch of twenty-somethings in hoodies, dusty sneakers, and anxiety laughed behind his back. He’d once overheard them in the break room.

“Bro dresses like he’s about to meet Obama but can’t even lead a meeting.”

Laughter.

Corey smiled, the kind of smile that’s more defense mechanism than emotion.

He was the operations lead at NowNxt, a tech startup that promised to “redefine collaboration” but couldn’t even get its employees to reply on Slack.

The office sat on the top floor of a converted warehouse in downtown Oakland; exposed brick, concrete floors that carried sound like gossip. Pool tables and self-pour beer taps were added for work life balance. Standing desks littered with kombucha cans and tangled chargers. A whiteboard wall filled with sticky notes that said things like synergy and user empathy but mostly meant chaos. His title sounded impressive, but really, he was just the company’s most patient babysitter.

He’d worn pressed pants since his first internship. His mother used to say, “People see the crease before they see the man.” He’d believed her—until NowNxt, where looking put-together only made him look washed.

That Tuesday, his boss, Veronica, summoned him into her glass office.

The room gleamed under white LEDs, minimalist and cold. Veronica kept the blinds half-lowered to avoid the sunlight negatively impacting her skincare routine. She didn’t need to raise her voice; her silence did the work.

“Corey, I need you to represent me at the Innovate Gala on Friday.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’ve been doing some great work recently.”

“Veronica, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t… think I’m the leader they see me as.”

He wanted to say, They don’t respect me. I tell them to turn in reports, and they turn in vibes.

Veronica gave him a smile shaped like a verdict.

“Well nobody else is available, so wear something sharp. Represent the brand.”

That night, Corey took an Uber home.

He hopped in and immediately caught a whiff of mints, peaches and and incense. The driver was an older Black man in a Kangol hat, eyes full of mischief.

Corey was mid–conference call, face lit ghost-blue by his phone.

“Team, we need the beta launch ready by Thursday.”

Silence.

“Did anyone finish the client deck?”

“Uh, yeah, but we’re kinda rethinking the visuals, bro.”

“Re…thinking? It’s due tomorrow.”

“We’ll figure it out, boss man.”

He muted himself and stared out the window. His reflection hovered over the skyline, neat collar, tired eyes, no line to frame his face.

“Rough night?” the driver asked, catching his eyes in the mirror.

“Something like that.”

“You sound like a smart brother. Where’d you go to school?”

“Stanford.”

“Knew it. Sharp dresser too.”

They rode in silence for a few blocks. The hum of tires blended with a low soul melody the driver hummed Sly Stone under his breath. Then Corey realized the streets weren’t familiar. The towers had thinned into aging storefronts and cracked sidewalks. Streetlights flickered. The city had shifted from tech polish to memory—like they’d slipped through a fold in time.

“Uh, hold up. Where are we? This isn’t my stop.”

The driver parked anyway, in front of a darkened storefront with no sign.

“Been listening, and I can tell you got a serious condition, brother.”

“A… condition?”

“Yeah. You got No Line Itis.”

Corey blinked.

“What?”

“Common among smart brothers who cut their own hair. No shape-up, no taper, just disjointed vibes.”

“How do you know I cut my own hair?”

He motioned toward Corey’s forehead.

“I can see it from here.”

“Can we just get to my destination, please?”

“Symptoms include lack of respect, low self-esteem, hypertension, and occasionally diabetes.”

“Nah, seriously, what are you talking about?”

“Ok, so, No Line Itis is a major condition, particularly in the Black community. Different than a bad haircut. This is worse.”

“Let’s go man, I’ve got to get home.

“Come with me.”

He parked beside a darkened block; empty shops, iron gates, the faint buzz of a neon cross from a church down the street. The air smelled like rain, shea butter, and burnt coffee.

The man pulled a battered duffel from the trunk and unlocked a narrow storefront. Inside waited a single barber chair—chrome and leather, centered under one golden bulb like a relic from an old school era. The linoleum floor was cracked, the mirrors fogged with time. Somewhere, faint hip hop drifted from an unseen radio. Sounded like A Tribe Called Quest.

“Have a seat,” he said.

“I just cut my hair this week.”

“Yeah,” the man chuckled. “I can tell.”

Corey sat.

The driver, barber, and prophet all wrapped in one, clicked on the clippers. They hummed like sacred machinery, blessed by the ancestors. The scents of after shave and citrus rose in the air. His movements were surgical, almost holy. The sound of the blades was rhythmic. Part sermon, part vocal bridge from Toni Braxton’s You Wasn’t Man Enough for Me.

Corey closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the man was gone. Talcum powder residue floated lightly in the air.

In the mirror stood a version of himself that frightened him. His hairline was immaculate. Shaped like an isosceles miracle. Angles so sharp they could cut disrespect in half. A faint glow pulsed around him, like divinity in 4K. He was boardroom Bruce Leroy.

He felt powerful. Whole. Aligned.

He texted his team: Meeting tomorrow. Be ready.

They replied instantly: Yes sir.

He turned to thank the barber, but the chair was gone.

The street empty. The night still.

He walked out and was suddenly standing on his own block.

Friday night.

Midnight-blue tux. Velvet loafers. Hairline flawless.

His Uber driver glanced back.

“Damn, my man! You look sharper than a fresh 20 out the ATM. That line crisp as hell.”

Corey just nodded, feeling the hum of his new power.

The Innovate Gala was at the Transcendence Hotel downtown. Overlooking the Bay, this floating majesty was exclusive. Not for dudes like Corey. The lobby gleamed with Brazilian walnut floors and old money. Inside, the ballroom shimmered in cold light, mirrored columns, champagne pyramids, jazz trio playing something technically perfect but emotionally uncultured.

The air smelled like ambition and cologne. Conversations floated like drones. Some were polite, other were competitive, everyone was performative.

At the gala, conversations froze mid-sentence when he entered.

“Corey! So good to see you.”

“Wow, you’re glowing, man!”

People parted as he passed, their laughter suddenly respectful, their eyes full of recognition. Colleagues who once ghosted his emails now offered champagne and allegiance.

Even a rival CEO said,

“We’ve been hearing great things about you.”

Corey smiled, shaking hands like a man who finally understood gravity.

When he stepped on stage to accept Veronica’s award, the audience rose before he even spoke. All he said thank you, but the response was one made for kings. Noise like Steph Curry hit a game winner. It was borderline raucous. A standing ovation that lasted a minute.

As he left the stage, still soaking in applause, he noticed a bartender in the corner.

Kangol hat. Same grin.

The man raised two fingers, pointed to his own immaculate line, and nodded once. Then he turned, walked into the back room and was never seen again.

Gone and disappeared into the darkness.

⸻

Later that night, in his apartment bathroom, Corey looked into mirror. Tie undone. Collar opened. Hairline still tough as ancient Egyptian mathematics.

His reflection looked regal, radiant, like the version of himself he’d always tried to become.

But just as he smiled, a whisper rose from somewhere behind his thoughts.

“Hold the line, brother. Once you lose it, they forget again.”

Corey’s smile faded. He leaned closer to the mirror and for just a second, his hairline flickered.