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discomfort, combined with your outfit, your hairstyle, and your general image made those
     segments read a little bitter. Do you know what I mean?”
    Sandy’s hand went up to her ponytail—the same type of ponytail she’d been wearing in the video. She willed herself to pull
     her hand down again, and to refrain from looking down at herself to see what Angelica was seeing at that moment. She forced
     herself to look the older woman in the eye with as much dignity as she could fake. “I’m not sure I do know what you mean,
     no.”
    Angelica smiled again. “You’re an attractive young woman, Sandy. Anyone can see that, even with you in those clothes, wearing
     those glasses, and without any makeup.”
    Sandy’s hand flew up to her rimless, glare-blocking, nearsighted-correction lenses.
    Angelica went on. “When you appear in public like this, you’re sending a message. That message is, ‘Judge me by my brains,
     not by my looks.’ And that’s completely valid, but when you interview women who get paid to be judged on looks, it can give
     the impression that you’re standing in opposition to them, so to speak. To some of our less enlightened audience members,
     it could read as ‘angry feminist’ or ‘bitter, jealous frump,’ or some other ridiculous thing. Even though you and I know that
     nothing is further from the truth. I don’t think it’s fair that you and I, as women, have to worry about our image in this
     way, but the reality is—”
    Sandy got the message. She decided to cut to the chase and save Angelica more explanation. “What you’re saying is, you want
     me to be prettier. Like Lori.”
    “Not at all.” Angelica shook her head. “How pretty you are makes no difference to me. What I want you to be”—here she leaned
     forward conspiratorially, and Sandy couldn’t help but lean forward too—“is more polished, and more
confident
. I want you to look like a woman who can hold her own with anyone. You already are that woman, and I want to make that fact
     more obvious to our audience.”
    Sandy frowned. She wasn’t sure she
was
that woman, actually, but she figured it’d be unwise to contradict her new boss on that point. What she did argue was “I
     just don’t see how makeup or a new hairstyle can convey that kind of message.”
    Angelica sat up straighter and smiled in a way that Sandy couldn’t help thinking was triumphant. “I’ll show you. Do you have
     a couple of free hours this afternoon?”
    I N THE SAME amount of time that it’d taken Cinderella to ride her pumpkin to the castle, probably, Sandy found herself at her optometrist’s
     office, picking up a copy of her prescription, and then at Angelica’s optometrist’s office, picking out new frames.
    “These,” said Angelica, holding up the same dark-rimmed pair that the blond in one of the display posters was wearing.
    Sandy modeled them in front of the mirror but was unable to gauge the effect without her own glasses on. She took them off
     and read the price tag. “There’s no way I could afford these.”
    “Don’t worry,” said Angelica, brandishing a silvery credit card. “Corporate expense.”
    Next stop was a salon all the way down in Brody Oaks, where the receptionist knew Angelica by name and a stylist in a white
     lab coat immediately ran over to kiss her on the cheek. “What have we here?” he said, eyeing Sandy like a golden cat standing
     over a dazed mouse.
    Angelica touched Sandy’s shoulder and said, “Makeover.”
    The stylist spun Sandy like a dancer, pulling the elastic band from her head and running his fingers through her hair all
     in one graceful move.
    “Mm,” was all he said. Then, “What are we thinking?”
    Angelica leaned forward and spoke quietly, but not quietly enough to keep Sandy from hearing. “I’m thinking sexy librarian,
     but not
too sexy
librarian.”
    “Tina Fey, but sleeker? Eva Peron, but alive?”
    “Exactly. I
knew
you’d understand, Rod.”
    Rod took