“I hate hair,” Gillelie announces.

“Yes,” murmurs Amette as she counts out the register. “Just like it says on your shirt.”

Gillelie wipes a stray hair off the nametag she’s emblazoned HAIR SUCKS. “Oh,” she says, “you already saw that?”

“You still have to sweep it up.”

“I don’t mind that part!” Gillelie leans down to run the shop broom down the salon floor. “This way I get to tell the hair how much it sucks. I mean, would it even know otherwise?”

“I doubt the hair is listening,” says Amette.

But you are, thinks Gillelie smugly, patting her stubbled head.