The receptionist had requested a two-hundred-dollar nonrefundable deposit and for a moment Natalie had hesitated. What kind of person would pay six hundred dollars to get scalp cancer at 6:30 a.m. on a Wednesday? Then her mind had flashed to the studio, to Ryan on air, and she’d mentally raised her hand and shouted, Me! I’m that kind of person! Sign me up!

Badem was the It salon of Washington, DC, located, like its clientele, as close as possible to the White House. Made of enough white marble to qualify as another monument, it was as famous for its blowouts—the first one at 5:45 a.m. to accommodate those in early news slots—as it was for the ugly rumors about its flamboyant owner, Osman Badem.

Based on the profiles she’d read to steel herself for the experience, Natalie wasn’t sure if it was despite or because of Osman Badem’s reputation for abuse that the A list flocked to the place. Magda, the hairdresser Bibb had insisted she see, laughed when Natalie had asked about this. “You are a smart report, habibi,” she said with a friendly wink and a vaguely Moroccan accent. Magda wore elbow-length black rubber gloves, clear safety goggles, white pants, and a white lab coat cinched at the waist with a belt that managed to showcase her ample cleavage. With her shoulder-length auburn hair brushed back off her forehead and her full mouth carefully made up in plum, she looked like a biological scientist from a future styled by John Galliano.

Natalie had been sent off with an assistant “to blank the slate,” as Magda said, which meant having her hair washed and blown dry. “We will speak when you come back.”

With her head in the sink, Natalie felt a rising tide of anxiety. She should have been at the office, or at least on her way there making calls and looking into the fallout from Molegate. The White House had put out a statement reaffirming that FLOTUS had indeed been home with a migraine, meaning that the photo had been a fake. Now she worried about White House reaction. What if the First Lady showed up to speak to reporters while she was at the salon and unavailable?

“No point in stressing,” Matt had scoffed. “You won’t get on air if you don’t get that hair. Do you want me to go with you and hold your hand?”

The only thing worse than missing out on a mega-story while paying to possibly get scalp cancer, she thought, would be listening to Matt the whole time.

Her phone buzzed.

MOM: Gerald’s son Trace says if you don’t have a date he thinks one of his friends would be willing to sit with you.

MOM: There is no reason to be embarrassed about needing a setup. According to New York Magazine, 32% of educated women in their thirties are single. Your group has a name: The 32%.