That morning, there were seven of them seated in a row, clean faced and dressed in identical red robes and slippers. Some mornings, there were just three of them; others, there were as many as fifteen women in the room. They had staggered appointments so that their favorite hair stylist, Anniq, and their favorite makeup artist, Belinda—along with their sundry assistants—could work their magic on them all. It was not every hair stylist who could achieve the exact shade of blond on so many different women with so many different hair textures, nor get the desired long banana curls that hung to the rib cage. And it was not every makeup artist who could affix false eyelashes with such dexterity, apply foundation so that each woman’s skin was the color of peaches and cream, no matter what color peaches they’d been born with. Every time Anniq suggested that perhaps this woman or that one might like an update to her look—streaks of honey in the long locks, layers, a bob, a pixie—the women would smile sadly and say, “You know I can’t.” And if Belinda showed them a palette of new eye shadows they might want to try, or suggest a nude lip instead of the red lipstick they were so used to, the women would shake their heads ruefully. “You know I can’t,” they would say. “This is what they want.” The women didn’t specify who “they” were, they didn’t have to. “They” meant everyone who watched their videos and listened to their commentaries, “they” were the police who were called when Duke wanted someone arrested, “they” were the investors who needed a little nudge in the right direction. Anniq and Belinda were professionals and would do their best to please their clients. Besides, the women didn’t give off even a hint of their resentment of Anniq and Belinda, whom they claimed to love and appreciate so, so much, whom they would greet every morning with a kiss on one cheek and then the other, like the French. Anniq, dark and lush and mysterious, with her thick curly hair streaked with indigo, and Belinda, with her rich, coppery skin, full lips, and brown eyes shot with flecks of green and gold. Neither looked like anyone else, both shone like stars being born. In the blond women’s more vulnerable moments—when they were overtired, or when they were just a bit too hungry—they would think to themselves, Who does she think she is, putting those silly streaks in her hair? Or, Those have to be contact lenses, she had to have injections in those lips. Nobody really looks like that. Or even, Why do I have to look like this? Why do I have to dye my hair this color, style it this way? What’s wrong with brown hair? Why do they believe me more when I wear this uniform? What am I doing here? But more often, they would tamp down these unproductive thoughts by intense yoga breathing or snacking on the kale chips that the servers brought for breakfast. They had to be ready for battle at all times, and a soldier couldn’t waste a minute feeling sorry for herself.