Summary: Beverly Crusher loses a bet.
Rated: PG
Only Her Hairdresser Knows For Sure
by DianeB
Crusher walked towards the shop, mentally berating herself for ever having suggested it. She should have known her only chance came and went with the Enterprise's arrival at the Tyrus Seven-A orbital mining station. To try again just courted trouble. But after the whole business with the exocomps, she felt so good to have been part of a discovery of a new lifeform that she just forgot herself and challenged Riker, La Forge, and Worf to another poker game, with the same stakes.
She played. She lost. She was in a big fix now. She knew the guys were lurking about somewhere, holocameras at the ready, but a furtive glance around revealed nothing. She chewed a corner of her lower lip.
Oh well, she thought, shit happens.
She balked near the entrance, before the doors could sense her presence. Finally, taking a deep breath and screwing her courage to the sticking place, she stepped forward into sensor range and the doors slid open.
"Well, hello, Dr. Crusher! Right on time! Come in. Sit down. Relax."
She sat in the chair he stood behind, trying hard not to look at his grinning blue face. Mot swiveled the chair around to face the mirror. On the counter below the mirror, amid the combs, brushes, scissors, spritz, and clips were six boxes. To her growing alarm she read: "Light Ash Brown," "Medium Golden Brown," "Moroccan Brown," "Chestnut Brown," "Sable Brown," "Cocoa Brown."
"Pick one, Doc, and we'll get right to it!" He flicked the cape expertly over her and fastened it snugly at her neck.
End