Salle sat in front of her stylist at the OKYO Salon, getting her hair colored for the second time this month. She was out for another reason too; to intercept Jen and Zel in the middle of their weeklong shopping binge, courtesy of herself.
I'm in luck, Salle thought, as the co-eds shouldered onto the floor. Two harried looking college boys staggered under the weight of shopping bags, purses and other high-end purchases.
Zel sighed contentedly and flopped into an empty chair.
"Ugh! Salle, you could have gotten us a valet or something to carry our stuff!"
One of the boys groaned.
"Shut up!" Jen hissed, then flashed Salle a bright smile. "Thanks for the trip! We blew almost twenty-five thousand dollars today!"
"Good for you," Salle said encouragingly. "Are you girls having fun?"
Both girls nodded and giggled.
"Okay, now be good ladies and get back to campus tomorrow. You have to show off those clothes, remember?" Salle looked at an embellished logo. "Is that Prada? Nice choice."
Jen squealed and fished out a hand to high-five Salle. Then she noticed what Salle was doing.
"You're coloring your hair again? God, your roots must be growing out so fast; what are you eating? I heard açai berries make your nails and hair grow really fast."
Salle nodded. "Run along now." The girls departed with a flourish, tired young men in tow.
The stylist was finished. "Thanks, Mindi. Color, highlights, lowlights? How much do I owe?"
Salle tipped Mindi generously, paid cash for the service, and bowed out, declining a glass of white wine and Godiva chocolates. Some Americans are truly wonderful to know.
The air was brisk for March. On the way back to her apartment, she inspected her hair in the mirror. No trace of grey roots, no more split ends. Salle pulled her wrap tighter around her frame and pulled out the rectangle of paper that was her key. She laid it against the brick wall and trotted up the three steps. The door swung open, and it was time for some serious plotting. She fluffed her pillow, put it on the couch, and sat on it.
Salle Silver is about twenty-eight years old, of medium height, and of middling complexion. She doesn't know where she was from, who her parents were, or why she has to bribe people these days to get what she wanted. It had been so much simpler in the past. These days, she has to dodge computers, marketers, electronics, credit-card pushers and the United States Postal Service, which had all proved remarkably persistent. About time the ball's in my court, she mused. Time to go to work.