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Authors: Juliet Rosetti
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moment because her face was slathered in Dead Sea clay and her eyelids had cucumbers on them, which were giving her an overwhelming craving for a tossed salad.
Magenta picked up a strand of Mazie’s just-shampooed hair and made the first cut. He was a genius with scissors, although he didn’t have a cosmetologist’s license and only did hair for a few select clients. His salon was crammed into a small space at the back of his shop: a shampoo sink, styling chair, mirror, and cabinet.
Magenta’s shop looked as though Saks Fifth Avenue had collided with a garage sale. Gowns originally priced in the thousands were offered here for a fraction of their cost. Diors, Valentinos, and Balenciagas shared space with their gaudier showbiz relatives—Bob Mackeys, Jovanis, and Vera Wangs. Wigs of all colors and styles were allotted a sacred shrine, shoes had their own altar, and feather boas and sequined scarves were draped across every possible surface. The clothes were nearly all in larger sizes because most of Magenta’s customers were men—drag queens, female impersonators, and guys who just liked dressing up in women’s clothes.
Magenta snipped, concentrating fiercely, for an hour, before finally twirling Mazie around to check herself out in the mirror. She took off the cucumbers slices. Even with her hair damp, the shape of the cut was evident; short on the nape and longer in front, with strands of varying length splaying down to emphasize her cheekbones.
“I love it!” Mazie patted her head all over, enjoying the feeling of the crisp, shorter hair.
“Thank you.” Magenta looked pleased. “I cut off about five pounds of hair.”
He’d just begun blow-drying when the bells on the front door rattled and Juju whirled into the shop. “Congratulate me!” she said, breathless and beaming. “I just had my first dominatrix session.”
Her dark brown eyes sparkled. In her short white leather jacket, lacy camisole, and skimpy denim skirt, she looked more like a schoolgirl than a paid inflictor of pain.
Magenta turned off the dryer. “Sit down and tell us every single detail. Who did you have to whip? What did you wear?”
Juju collapsed into the shampoo chair. “I decided against the lady buccaneer thing and went with the catsuit. I practically had to use a shoehorn—that sucker fought me every inch of the way—the leather sticks to your skin, it chafes like crazy, and it’s hot as Satan’s armpit.”
Juju picked up a long blond wig, tried it on, and studied her reflection. “It took so long to get into the thing I was running twenty minutes late. But my mentor dominatrix, Natalie—she goes by the name Princess Payne—anyway, she said it’s okay being late for a session because it makes the submissive build up more fear.”
“What’s a submissive?” Mazie asked.
“The one that’s getting his butt whipped,” Juju explained, “but we just call them Scum or Toad or stuff like that. In real life, a lot of them are executives or high-powered businessmen who make decisions and run companies and chop off heads all day. They get a kick out of giving up control for a while and having someone tell them when they can breathe.”
Magenta fanned himself with a hair-coloring brochure. “I could get into that.”
Juju grinned. “So I slam into the room and stride up to the guy, start snarling at him, tell him that he’s a pathetic piece of garbage and I shouldn’t have to waste my time disciplining him, but someone needs to teach him a lesson and I’m the unfortunate mistress who has to do it.”
“Do you work from a script?” Mazie asked.
Juju giggled. “No—I was just channeling my aunt Popo yelling at my uncle Chi-Chi. Aunt Popo could blister paint off walls.”
“Did you have to spank the guy?” asked Magenta, looking extremely curious.
“No—he just wanted to have a dog collar strapped around his neck and to be jerked around on a leash. I made him go down on all fours and crawl into this
Magenta picked up a strand of Mazie’s just-shampooed hair and made the first cut. He was a genius with scissors, although he didn’t have a cosmetologist’s license and only did hair for a few select clients. His salon was crammed into a small space at the back of his shop: a shampoo sink, styling chair, mirror, and cabinet.
Magenta’s shop looked as though Saks Fifth Avenue had collided with a garage sale. Gowns originally priced in the thousands were offered here for a fraction of their cost. Diors, Valentinos, and Balenciagas shared space with their gaudier showbiz relatives—Bob Mackeys, Jovanis, and Vera Wangs. Wigs of all colors and styles were allotted a sacred shrine, shoes had their own altar, and feather boas and sequined scarves were draped across every possible surface. The clothes were nearly all in larger sizes because most of Magenta’s customers were men—drag queens, female impersonators, and guys who just liked dressing up in women’s clothes.
Magenta snipped, concentrating fiercely, for an hour, before finally twirling Mazie around to check herself out in the mirror. She took off the cucumbers slices. Even with her hair damp, the shape of the cut was evident; short on the nape and longer in front, with strands of varying length splaying down to emphasize her cheekbones.
“I love it!” Mazie patted her head all over, enjoying the feeling of the crisp, shorter hair.
“Thank you.” Magenta looked pleased. “I cut off about five pounds of hair.”
He’d just begun blow-drying when the bells on the front door rattled and Juju whirled into the shop. “Congratulate me!” she said, breathless and beaming. “I just had my first dominatrix session.”
Her dark brown eyes sparkled. In her short white leather jacket, lacy camisole, and skimpy denim skirt, she looked more like a schoolgirl than a paid inflictor of pain.
Magenta turned off the dryer. “Sit down and tell us every single detail. Who did you have to whip? What did you wear?”
Juju collapsed into the shampoo chair. “I decided against the lady buccaneer thing and went with the catsuit. I practically had to use a shoehorn—that sucker fought me every inch of the way—the leather sticks to your skin, it chafes like crazy, and it’s hot as Satan’s armpit.”
Juju picked up a long blond wig, tried it on, and studied her reflection. “It took so long to get into the thing I was running twenty minutes late. But my mentor dominatrix, Natalie—she goes by the name Princess Payne—anyway, she said it’s okay being late for a session because it makes the submissive build up more fear.”
“What’s a submissive?” Mazie asked.
“The one that’s getting his butt whipped,” Juju explained, “but we just call them Scum or Toad or stuff like that. In real life, a lot of them are executives or high-powered businessmen who make decisions and run companies and chop off heads all day. They get a kick out of giving up control for a while and having someone tell them when they can breathe.”
Magenta fanned himself with a hair-coloring brochure. “I could get into that.”
Juju grinned. “So I slam into the room and stride up to the guy, start snarling at him, tell him that he’s a pathetic piece of garbage and I shouldn’t have to waste my time disciplining him, but someone needs to teach him a lesson and I’m the unfortunate mistress who has to do it.”
“Do you work from a script?” Mazie asked.
Juju giggled. “No—I was just channeling my aunt Popo yelling at my uncle Chi-Chi. Aunt Popo could blister paint off walls.”
“Did you have to spank the guy?” asked Magenta, looking extremely curious.
“No—he just wanted to have a dog collar strapped around his neck and to be jerked around on a leash. I made him go down on all fours and crawl into this
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