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sure the floors and restrooms were clean, then settled in to answer phones and schedule appointments at the reception desk.
    “The front desk is where you learn the business,” Justine always said. “You meet the delivery people, talk to the product suppliers, get to know the clientele, and figure out how to accommodate a team of extremely talented, extremely high-maintenance employees.”
    So Lara had learned to juggle schedules, assess profit-and-loss statements, and politely but firmly insist on timely delivery from vendors. Although Justine very rarely made an appearance on the main floor, the rest of the staff treated Lara like family—more specifically, like an awkward but endearing little sister. The hairstylists and aestheticians delighted in performing “practice facials” on Lara and trying to shock her with tales of their wild after-hours exploits. Yes, the salon employees were happy to embrace a hormonally volatile, coiffure-challenged college kid.
    The customers were another story.
    From the moment Justine opened the doors at her first salon, she targeted a very specific type of client: rich, fashion-forward, and prone to pretentiousness. Young trendsetters with bloated trust funds flocked in to enhance their tanned, taut bodies and long platinum hair. For the most part, they ignored Lara, but when their gazes flickered over her, they registered a mixture of annoyance and pity. Lara always smiled back, offering to store their cavernous designer bags and fetch a bowl of water for their tiny jewel-bedecked dogs.
    Papillon, Coton de Tulear, Japanese Chin, Havanese. All these pups could comfortably fit inside a Louis Vuitton satchel, and most of them had been styled to complement their owners. The girls bought them on impulse, charmed by the cute little fluff balls and the novelty of painting their dogs’ toenails the same shade as their own. But then, as the dogs aged and shed and started nipping or gnawing on the handles of that Louis Vuitton satchel, the owners’ affections lapsed.
    “Ugh. She keeps pooping in my closet.”
    “I’m going to Cabo for spring break and the resort doesn’t allow pets.”
    “My new boyfriend doesn’t like little dogs.”
    “Here,” one freshly highlighted socialite said as she deposited a tan teacup poodle in Lara’s lap. “Would you please watch Enzo for a second while I run next door and grab a latte?”
    She never came back. At the end of the day, Lara tried unsuccessfully to convince one of the stylists to take the dog overnight. Finally, after she locked the doors and turned off the lights, she dialed her mother’s office.
    “Yes?” Justine sounded neither pleased nor displeased to hear from her daughter. As usual, she was all business.
    And so Lara tried to be all business, too. She explained the situation as briefly as possible, keenly aware that for Justine, time was money.
    Justine didn’t bother with exclamations of outrage or surprise. “Where is the dog now?”
    “Right here.” The poodle sat at her feet, staring up intently as though he understood every syllable. “His name is Enzo.”
    “Who left it?”
    Lara scanned the appointment book to find the name.
    “Kristi Spillane.”
    “Do you have a contact number for her?”
    “Yes. I’ve tried to reach her multiple times, but she didn’t pick up, so I left voice messages.”
    “Kristi Spillane,” her mother repeated. “How long has she been a client?”
    “Today was her second time here, I think.”
    “And who referred her?”
    Justine insisted on keeping meticulous social as well as financial records, so Lara could check this with the click of the keyboard. “Bianca Altisanti.”
    “Bianca’s brought us a lot of new business over the last year,” Justine said. “I’d hate to offend her over a misunderstanding.”
    “But, Mom, this girl went out for coffee and never came back for her dog.”
    “Maybe she’s dealing with an emergency,” Justine suggested. “Don’t panic. Just