Cosmetic potions on display at Annamaria Rosenthal’s salon. All strange unique things, some fizzing, some foaming, all quite quite singular.
The shampoo which turned golden curls silver, with lavender tracery in the moonlight. The shampoo which deep cleaned braids and dreadlocks so they almost shone, even if they’d been that way for a year.
The creme made with coconut oil that smoothed frizz into submission and smelt lightly of citrus or musk or gardenia as the client asked.
Annamaria Rosenthal’s salon was manned (well, womaned) by her twelve grandnieces, dark skinned, light skinned, skin of all shades, hair of all types, and all of them not making people fit the Rosenthal ideal of beauty but the clients own.
If it made the client feel safe in their skin, and happy with themselves, they reasoned, why not?