Twelve
The shrieks reach my ears before my feet reach the door.
“I specifically said that I wanted an updo with carmine-red lisianthus wrapped into the curls—these obviously are not lisianthus! They’re not even red! Baby’s breath is so 1985—I cannot have this in my hair! Is there something wrong with you?”
I slip into the salon, not surprised to see that Nikki’s face is flushed and blotchy from her tantrum. Clearly she hasn’t made it as far as makeup yet. Before she notices I’m there, I snap a photo of her angry reflection in the mirror. I am not above blackmail.
The woman she’s going off on stands with a comb in hand, waiting for the wave to settle, but the look on her face is stern. She’s listening respectfully, but she’s not cowering to Nikki Meyer. I like her.
“We were not able to
