I surrendered completely, becoming little more than a mannequin as these three wildly different yet equally dynamic women worked their magic upon me. Where on earth had Elijah unearthed these "maestros"? They bore no resemblance to the polished yet detached stylists from upscale salons I vaguely remembered.
Brenda, the statuesque Black woman, moved with startling precision despite her imposing frame, her keen eyes seeming to X-ray the very structure beneath the fabric. Rosa, the volcanic Latina, curved in all the right places, her laughter a rich, warm sound that bounced off the walls. Ingrid, the ethereal Nordic blonde, stood tall and pale as moonlight, her calm demeanor as still and deep as an arctic lake. Diverse in every way—skin, shape, spirit—they shared only one overwhelming trait: a vibrant, almost jarring energy that felt utterly alien to the compound's oppressive atmosphere.
