Maya was twenty-two. She’d just finished cosmetology school. She had pink hair, a nose ring, and absolutely no patience for nonsense.

She handled reception. She shampooed. She swept. She mixed color when I needed an extra pair of hands. She was learning to cut, slowly, on mannequin heads in the back room after closing.

She also had a look.

A specific look. She only used it for certain clients. The ones who asked whether bleach was bad for your hair, after sitting in the chair for two hours getting bleached. The ones who said just a trim and then cried when you took off half an inch. The ones who brought in a photo of Jennifer Aniston and said, Can you make me look like her? I have a cowlick and very thin hair.

It was a long, flat, silent look. One eyebrow up maybe a quarter of an inch.

She never said a word. She didn’t have to.

Before Vanessa, the worst thing any customer had ever stolen from Golden Hour was our bathroom hand soap.

The whole dispenser. Lavender and eucalyptus. Fourteen dollars. Gone from the bathroom one Thursday afternoon.

Maya was furious. She wanted to put up a sign. WHOEVER TOOK THE SOAP: WE KNOW.

I told her not to.

Two weeks later, the dispenser showed up on the reception desk. Full. Refilled with soap. With a little sticky note on it in shaky handwriting.

I’m sorry. It smelled so nice. I was having a very bad week. — M.

We still don’t know who M was.

We still have the sticky note. It’s on the wall in the back room, next to my business license.

Vanessa, unfortunately, was a lot more confident than M.

She arrived on a Thursday at eleven in the morning.

She came through the front door wearing enormous sunglasses, the kind that cover half your face. A cropped white sweater. Wide-leg jeans. Gold hoops. She was carrying an iced coffee in a giant plastic cup with a straw.

She walked straight up to my station and set the iced coffee down right next to my stack of clean, folded white towels.

Condensation started dripping down the side of the cup immediately. A little puddle spreading toward the towels.

“I’m Vanessa,” she announced. “I booked the works.”

“Hi, Vanessa. I’m Claire,” I said. “Welcome. You can put your drink over here, if you don’t mind. Just so it doesn’t get the towels wet.”

I pointed to the little side table next to the chair, the one I’d put there specifically for drinks.

She looked at the side table. She looked at me.

She moved the iced coffee about two inches.

Still dripping. Still next to the towels.

I moved the towels instead.

Behind the reception desk, Maya gave me the look.

The long, flat, silent one. One eyebrow up.

I ignored her.

I pulled up Vanessa’s booking on the tablet at my station.

She’d booked online the week before. The full package. That’s what we call it. Color, cut, deep conditioning treatment, and a blowout with styling. It’s our most expensive service. It takes three to four hours, depending on the hair.

Our booking system shows the total price on the screen before you can confirm anything. In big bold numbers. You have to check a little box that says I agree to the listed service price before the system lets you finish.

$285.

Vanessa had checked the box.

Vanessa had also linked her public beauty profile to her booking.

That’s an option in our system. Some clients do it, so they can share their inspiration photos with us ahead of time. It’s easier than texting pictures back and forth. Her profile was called VanessaGlowsUp. Her little profile picture was a selfie in a car with a ring light.

I didn’t think anything of it. Lots of clients have beauty accounts. Everybody’s a little bit of an influencer now.

She took off her sunglasses and sat down in my chair. She pulled out her phone and showed me a photo.

A woman with warm brown hair. Not quite chestnut. Not quite caramel. Somewhere in between. With soft, face-framing highlights that looked like sunlight. A long layered cut, just past the shoulders. And big, glossy, loose waves.

It was gorgeous. Whoever did that woman’s hair was very good.

“I want exactly this,” Vanessa said.