Pink perm rod puckered like a cigarette, she lisps a little as she combs and rolls, and doesn’t care who waits. She’s overbooked: one in the chair; a row of patient souls with heads in driers; several draped in smocks like mutant jellyfish. The rest, sardines, fill up the wicker loveseats, glad to chat or eavesdrop, scanning last year’s magazines. She’s talking to the mirror when she talks, its surface framed with photos: kids as cute as tutus, kickers, cloggers, dough-faced babies, bow-head babies, babies dressed like fruit, all wallet-sized. A sign above her lists the fees for cut and color, manicures and waxing (“brows and pits; bikinis extra”). She draws good tips, although the job secures itself: the do’s must be redone, new shades of blond or bronze (“If you can’t tone it, tan it!”). In here the atmosphere, abuzz with heat and aerosol, suggests a cozy planet outside of time. Forget the yawning gods, she plugs a clear cosmology: big bangs are out, she says, try layers; fringe benefits a puffy face, revives a mop that hangs, exhausted. Mostly, though, she helps control old damage. Sure, she’ll hide dark roots or chop dead ends, but she won’t promise miracles: nobody’s reborn in a beauty shop.