You are strong, said Sherri in her head at Derma-You once her training was complete. Katie is safe, and you are strong. This was her mantra for the evening. Her counselor in the program had taught her about mantras. Sometimes she recycled, because it was difficult to think of a new one every day. They were all variations on a calming and empowering theme: Your body is capable, your spirit is capable. Or, The rest of your life is the best of your life. (She’d been pretty proud of that one, with the rhyme.)

She reached for the file of a woman named Penelope Butler, who would be in at seven thirty for her fourth laser treatment to remove her underarm hair. Unwanted hair was just one of the things you could make disappear at Derma-You. You could also say good-bye to lax skin, liver spots, spider veins. Moles, cellulite. Skin discoloration. Scars. It was shocking, really, how many things could be removed from the human body.

The doctors were three smooth, ageless women—at once the advertisers for their goods as well as the dispensers—who flew in and out so quickly in their white coats that Sherri could hardly keep them straight.

The door opened and a woman walked in. Miranda Ramirez, who had a seven o’clock consultation for fillers. She smiled uncertainly, the way Sherri had learned all new patients smiled on their first visit. They wanted to change something about themselves, but they were ashamed to admit to that want. They looked around to see if anyone they knew was in the waiting room.

Sherri smiled back. She had noticed that some of the other women who worked at the front desk—there were usually three at a time, one checking patients in and one checking them out, while a third manned (womaned) the phones—were often hurried and graceless when they talked to the patients. They could have been dealing with oil changes or tax appointments, not the precious, vulnerable parts of these women’s bodies, the over-hairy or over-scarred or flabby bits that required special attention.

Sherri tried to make up for this deficit. She smiled her extra-wide, welcoming smile. She tried to let them know that she got it. She understood what it was like to take on a disguise.

The phone rang. She jumped. Alexa! Then she chided herself. Of course it wouldn’t be Alexa. Alexa didn’t even have this number; she had Sherri’s cell phone number.

“Thank you for calling Derma-You!” she said in her friendliest, most accepting voice. “How can I help you look your best?”

After work two of the girls asked Sherri if she wanted to go for a drink with them. Sherri texted Alexa to see if she minded staying later; she didn’t. The women were younger than Sherri; she was flattered to be asked. She would go and have a friendly drink. She would be a person without history.