Heart beating rapidly, Mina tried to breathe. She had never colored her hair. She had always heard that color was the death of curls.
In far less time than she felt it should have taken, the stylist had her whole head foiled. He stood back and admired his handiwork while Mina’s stomach churned.
Roz smiled. “That’s good for now. Someone call for lunch. We will eat and then continue working while the color sets. Time is ticking.”
Food arrived moments later, and the group ate efficiently, quietly talking amongst themselves. All except for Mina, who took robotic bites of food and stared woodenly at the clumps of her hair littering the floor.
And then round two began—not with the hairstylist, as Mina had expected, but with the woman with the perfect face.
Upon closer examination, Mina could tell that the woman’s visage was the result of careful and precise makeup application. She had used lighter and darker colors to alter the dimensions and shape of her face like an artist with paints on canvas.
“I’m excellent. I know.”
The woman’s voice was wry when she spoke, and Mina stopped staring long enough to make eye contact. “My apologies,” she muttered.
“None needed,” the woman said. “Be still.”
And then she set to work.
An hour later, she stepped away from Mina and handed her a mirror.
Mina’s mouth dropped open at what she saw—only it wasn’t her mouth. It was the lush, deep, red-wine–colored mouth of a siren. Or, set against the bronzed sheen of her golden-brown skin, it looked like the mouth of an ancient Egyptian goddess. In that vein, Mina’s large hazel eyes were lined in thick black, and her lashes curled and darkened to match. Her eyelids shimmered with shades of gold, drawing out the similar specks floating in the depths of her irises.
She looked...arresting, even with a head full of foils.
The short woman said to the man, “Don’t wash any off when you finish her hair. You’ll owe me three-hundred and twenty-five crowns’ worth of product if you do.”
Mina swallowed. Three hundred and twenty-five crowns for one coating of face paint? She had only ever spent that much of money on rare texts when she’d been unable to secure them through the university library.
The man merely snorted before tilting Mina’s chair back. His busy hands made quick work of the foils, and soon his strong fingers were once again massaging her head in the sink.
After using another lovely-smelling product in her hair he gave it a light rinse, before tilting her upright and pulling out a strangely shaped hairdryer.
Mina closed her eyes, dreading the frizzy mess her hair would be when he’d finished with her. Her hair did not take well to blow drying.
While he set to work, Roz addressed the room. “Where are the clothes?”
Someone ran off. Mina did not see who it was.
After what felt like a lifetime of blow-drying, two sets of feet shuffled back into the room.
“You give me no time, but I still work miracles.”
Mina recognized the lyrical voice of the woman with the asymmetrical haircut.
“Yes. Yes. Get over here. She’s ready,” Roz rasped.
The man spun Mina in the chair to face Roz.
“Stand,” Roz commanded.
Mina did.
The woman handed her undergarments first—though Mina wasn’t sure there was enough fabric for the underwear to be considered a garment. An impossibly thin and seamless black thong—a tiny triangle of material—slid on like silk and felt like a cool nothing.
Mina had never worn a thong.
Scholars did not wear thongs.