Her hands were gloriously achy. Tress laid down in a great flop, her hair spreading out behind her in a giant fan of blond and pink. The stylist closed her eyes, and the dull, minute pain of tiredness flashed through her makeup-painted eyelids. Qiana was well within her realm of happy, despite any lethargy. A great day of work was under her belt, doing hair and makeup and giving jewelry tips (and random advice on boys) to girls who'd come through the salon. It was homecoming season; the second busiest time of the year for her profession. Once things had settled down for the day, and it was time to sweep and recollect, Tress had realized that Xavier's hadn't thrown dances when she was a teen. Or anytime, really.
She smiled to herself, as she lay in bed contemplating, and made a mental note to speak with Zap about the possibility of giving the students and staff a homecoming. The football game, the parade, the dance, the whole nine yards. There was a possibility of greatness; and a one hundred percent chance of a metric ton of work. It was beneficial that Qiana's prehensile hair was akin to a spare pair of hands, and not just for divine fashion stature.