Fallen Angels, Possession

Georgia . . . Florida. Maybe relocating could be the crowning glory of her year of reclamation. Tahiti.

The hair salon was the lone still-open standout on the block, its interior lit up bright as daylight and yet there didn t appear to be anyone inside. Stepping through the glass door, the air was all sweet perfume with an undertow of chemicals, and the discordant, wavy music was way too sophisticated for her.

Whoa, fancy. Everything was black and white marble, the dozen or so stations spick-and-span, the row of sinks with their Liberace leather reclining chairs like some kind of napping center for grown-ups. On the walls there were framed, larger-than-life head shots of models rocking Zoolander s Blue Steel, and the floor was shiny as a plate.

As she walked up to the reception desk, her sensible shoes made a squeaking sound like all that Carrara didn t approve of them.

Hello?

Rubbing her nose as it kept tickling, she thought, for the love of God, the thing needed to sneeze or get over itself.

Lot of mirrors which made her truly uncomfortable. She d never been much for looking at herself not because she was ugly, but because where she came from, that kind of thing was frowned upon.

Thank God her parents lived out West when they weren t traveling. No reason they d ever know she d set foot in a place like this.

Hello? She went deeper into the interior, checking out the island in the middle that was obviously where they mixed the colors. So many tubes of various hues of blond, brunette, red . . . and some of a more Crayola spectrum. Blue hair? Pink?

Maybe she should blow this off . . .

The man who came out of the back was thin as a shadow, those shrink-wrapped black jeans clearly helping his toothpick legs keep him upright.

Are you zee Cait Douglass?&