She has colored hair for twelve years. His face is on the billboard. Her elbow kept her awake last night and she had three clients today anyway.

Page 6

At eight forty-five Renee Ortiz arrives for the consultation we booked at the awards on Saturday night. Pewter cardigan, the flat-soled shoes from the judging stage. The blacklight wand is in her bag. She does not take it out.

"I have eleven names," she says. "Master colorists in three states. Two of them have registry numbers. One signed a non-disclosure with a salon owner she trusted. They want to talk to a lawyer who has done this kind of work."

She slides a paper across my station. A name and a phone number. Diane Vasquez. Boston area code.

"Wednesday at four," Renee says. "She will Zoom you. You ask three questions: who owns the formula card, who owns the registry number, who is named on the lease as cosignatory. Then you listen."

I write the appointment on the back of a color formula card, twice, on two different cards. I put one in the second drawer. I put the other in my purse.

Renee finishes her coffee. At the door she stops. "Saturday I told the room I had a registry number and a person. I will tell the room a name when you tell me you are ready. Not before."

She leaves.

At nine fifteen Derek comes through the back door with a coffee from the place two blocks away. He is wearing a navy shirt I have not seen before. He stands at the front of the salon and looks at the team page on the laptop on the reception desk for a long time without sitting down. Then he opens his laptop. He clicks twice. He drags. He clicks again. I do not look at the screen. I hear the trackpad. After fourteen minutes he closes the laptop and walks past me without speaking and goes into the back office and closes the door.

At eleven the team page goes live with my photograph at the top. Beneath it, in italics: Claire Ashford — Master Colorist. Lead Colorist, PBA-TR-2024-0312. Beneath Derek's name, in the same italics: Owner. Below that, smaller, in a font I have never seen on the page before: Lease cosignatory in process.

I do not say anything to him. He does not come out of the office.

At two-fifteen the bridesmaid who booked Derek for a consultation in March — Hannah, the blonde from the Ashford party who was seated in my chair without explanation — walks in. She is holding a print-out of the new team page. She does not look at the front desk. She walks straight to my chair and sits down.

"Can you do my color for the rest of my life," she says.

I do not answer right away. I open the drawer and take out the comb. I hold it in my left hand. I press the rattail into the part on the right side of her head. The teeth slide along her scalp. She closes her eyes. The comb is the right weight in my hand. The wrist band is gone. My elbow does not hurt this morning. It might hurt tomorrow.

"Yes," I say. I lift a section. "Tell me what you want."

Outside, the billboard on Route 9 is still up. Derek's face. I know this without looking. The lease has Derek's name on it. Stylists are still independent contractors. I have not won anything. I have a consultation Wednesday at four with a lawyer in Boston. I have a name on the team page. I have a comb in my drawer that tastes like nothing.

She tells me what she wants. I lift the brush.