Helen leaned over the keyboard. She was busy updating a legal document. The law firm she worked for was on the 35th floor in Mid-town Manhattan.  Down the hall was a window that she occasionally looked out as she came back to her desk with a cup of coffee.  The window gave a long narrow view down the busy street where cars and trucks dominated the space, while pedestrians shuffled along the trash-strewn sidewalks.

Today was a sunny day, but Helen would not feel the sun on her back—she would leave the office too late for sunlight. By the time she left, the air in the street would be full of fumes and dust from the day’s deliveries and doings. After long boring hours of trying to please her boss, an attorney who had very upscale clientele, Helen would finally step onto an elevator, ride down 35 floors to the lobby, push through the large glass double-doors, dash down into a smelly subway station, and push through the crowd to find a seat, or at least a corner to stand in—until her stop was announced.  This glorious moment of departure was when she knew she had escaped the power and force of her boss’s commands and could, at last, be her true self.

But even at home her thoughts returned to her workday.

The very upscale clientele in need of legal advice today was the famous hair salon operator, Roberto Ricco. He and he alone had designed hair styles for the famous women of stage and video, including Charisa Bellezza, and the famous singer, Antoinette Cantante. Roberto owned five mansions in the United States and two penthouses in Dubai. He was seeking advice on real estate taxes he felt he should not have to pay.

Helen had made sure that every name, date and detail was perfectly accurate in the legal papers while she and some of her women co-workers joked.  They wove a fanciful future with a dream of marrying an accomplished entrepreneur, or, at the very least, buying a winning lottery ticket at lunch time.

Tedium defined their every minute, so their dreams of a delightful future were a means of survival. When the clock had run out on their workweek, they looked to the weekend for the rapture they hoped would lift them above the hard rock of tectonic plates and low pay that the city was founded on.

Helen remembered that morning, seeing Mr. Ricco coming through the office doors. He smiled his best business smile, stood tall and moved rigidly forward.  He shook hands with his attorney who then patted him on the shoulder. After this dance of appreciation, Mr. Ricco turned and saw Helen’s curious eyes looking his way.  He lifted his head, as if to better see this elegant beauty.  Her braided gray hair sparkled like a necklace of diamonds. His eyes captured hers. Could it be? After years of searching, he had found the one.  She was a member of the market that Ricco had decided was perfect for his next hair-styling products.  He moved in her direction, seeing no one else.  

                Startled, she watched him glide through a room filled with clerks and desks and phones. When he arrived, he leaned forward and looked at her hair. She took a quick peek at herself in a small mirror on the corner of her desk to see what it was he saw in her.  Her hair was bright and beautiful, shining like polished silver. Thick, rich, luxurious. He reached his hand toward her hair and touched it.

                “Madame, may I ask, how do you care for your hair? It is lovely.”

                Helen heard his Italian accent, then looked up at Mr. Ricco.  His face was smoothly shaved. His eyes were dark and powerful. She had to lower her gaze. She saw the complex weave of the fabric of his suit, his clean soft smooth hands. She smelled his cologne. She heard a gentle lilt in his voice and now detected a gentleness in his movements.

                She knew in her heart that she could not rise to his level of sophistication. Dazed for several minutes, she finally became aware that he had asked her a question. She must respond. Of all questions to ask, he wanted to know how she cared for her hair.   

She turned her head down as if waiting for a blessing, but it was not a blessing to be asked about your hair by a very professional salon operator. He sold high-value products to beautiful, wealthy women.  What would he think if she told him the truth?  Should she lie?  Better to do so. Should she tell him she used his products daily?  Even though she could never afford them?

She chose to lie. She just could not be so cruel. How could she shatter his illusion that every woman in the world longed for his products and yearned to keep him happy? He smiled down at her when she spoke her falsehood.

But in her mind she saw the cheap, plastic bottle of shampoo on the shelf of her shower. She was a woman of the world and knew how to be suave.