“Define sexy? My commander’s going to be here, and probably the chief. With spouses. I don’t need sexy hair.”
“Chill.” Trina echoed Mavis’s word, but her tone was a lot more forceful.
“It’s the center deal,” Mavis began. “She doesn’t like it.”
“What center? My hair has a center?”
“I mean you. I’m explaining to Trina how you don’t like the center spot when it’s not cop stuff. It wigs you a little. But, you know, it’s your party and hello, Roarke, so it just is.”
She picked up Eve’s glass, put it back in Eve’s hand. “Drink your champagne. You’ll toggle around some.”
“I don’t want to toggle around. I want to be finished with this part.”
“Nearly are. Mave? Hand me the comb, will you?”
“A-plus class,” Mavis commented as she passed the comb to Trina. “Okay!” she added as Trina placed the comb. “Trina, you’re the bestest of the bestest.”
“Solid,” Trina agreed, but to Eve’s consternation, did more spraying.
“My hair’s what’s going to be solid if you keep that up.”
“Done. Take a look.” She swiveled Eve’s chair around to face the mirror.
It was a shock but not a jolt, which was something anyway. Her face mostly looked like her face. Her lips were kind of red, but the dye was sheer and pretty subtle. And no glittery stuff on her eyes, so that was a big plus. Instead she looked more defined, she supposed, and fussier with the pale gold on the lids, and all the darker stuff blended in wherever.
But she could recognize herself.
The hair wasn’t like her hair. Was it? Scooped back, higher on the top, fussier again with a little bit of curl.
“You’ve got to see the back,” Mavis told her, and grabbed a big hand mirror. “It’s all about the back.”
Mavis held up the mirror; Trina angled the chair.
Eve saw now the higher top and little bit of curl held up with the comb. A few more little curls dangled down with the rubies and diamonds.
“It’s . . . girlie.”
“Be a girl tonight. It won’t kill you. The do fits the comb and the dress.”
“How do you know it fits the dress? I don’t even know what the dress is.”
“How am I supposed to do you up if I don’t know what you’re wearing? I saw the dress. The do and the rest of you are designed for the outfit.”
“And it’s fabulolicious,” Mavis assured her.
“Why don’t you get it, Mavis? Roarke said it would be front and center of her closet, shoes and accessories with it.”
“I’m all over that!”
“You look good.” Trina began packing up her tools. “My work always looks good. I’d leave you the lip shine, but you wouldn’t remember to slick it up anyway, so I’ll leave it with Mavis. She’ll remind you. Your man’s going to look strip-me-naked good ’cause he was born that way. You need to look good.”
“I don’t want people to strip naked when they look at me.”
On a bray of laughter, Trina continued to pack up. “They’re going to look at you and think: That’s one frosty bitch cop. Maybe you were born the bitch cop, I added the frosty. It’s what I do.”
“I can live with that. For a party.”
“This is the max,” Mavis cooed as she came back out of the closet. “The maximum mag. It looks like somebody melted old gold coins and made a dress. That’s my Leonardo.”