HENRIETTA: Blonde. Late 30s. Face formed in the shadows of Tesla charging stations. If she’s snobbish, it came with the divorce settlement that included a driver and an Irish Wolfhound. For her, there’s nothing like a perfect Manhattan blowout, and she’ll risk her slingback heels on the escalator to get one. She’s always chasing the next reveal.

WHITLEY: Ginger. 40s. Just as addicted as Henrietta. Husband died rolling a Sprinter van on the Amalfi coast. She has beautiful hair, but all the convective heat is drying her follicles. She can no longer wear navy. She likes Henrietta. They have the understanding of the blown toward the blown.

EDIE, THE NIGHT DRYBARTENDER: Black hair. Cut short. Mid-20s. Too quick with style advice. Her favorite stunt is to spin the chair around not once, but twice, before the reveal. She acts big, but she’s just another hustling drybartender stamping around on bleached hardwood.

LINDA: Limp brunette. Also 40s. Hates Henrietta. Comes for free scalp massages but never books a blowout. They let her hang around anyway, a weak dog to poke. She secretly loves Edie but all the washings are stripping her hair. She’ll soon need a day-spa oil treatment from a man named Enzo. With no way to afford it.

GRANDMA MONIQUE: Gone grey. In her 50s. Hair products expert. Mouth so foul it kills flies. Knows the entire Drybar catalog but is seldom seen because she lives in the bathroom. Reeks of orange-jasmine air freshener.

- - -



A neon sign for the “Golden Mane Drybar” blinks and buzzes in the summer heat. The camera pushes in on the joint’s single glass door. A lemon-yellow flyer taped to the inside says “No Cuts, No Color, Just Blowouts!” And handwritten in smaller print, “Free color-safe wash.”

VOICES can be heard.

LINDA (offscreen): Hit her with the boar bristle brush!

WHITLEY (offscreen): Ask for heat protectant, Henrietta! Don’t give up!


EDIE, the NIGHT DRYBARTENDER, and HENRIETTA, the drybarfly, engage in a blowout.

EDIE savagely waves her 2000-watt BabylissPRO in HENRIETTA’S orbit. In an adjacent chair, WHITLEY looks on with an OK! magazine in her lap. LINDA hovers close to EDIE, a towel around her head, barking encouragement.

LINDA: I love your mean angles, Edie! Set her bangs good!

WHITLEY (to Linda): What do you know? You air dry!

A toilet flushes in the background. GRANDMA MONIQUE emerges from a bathroom door. She holds up a rosé-colored spritz bottle.

GRANDMA MONIQUE: Any of you whores need finishing spray?

EDIE continues with HENRIETTA’S blowout, plus extensions, booked without 24-hour notice. It’s taking everything she has. Meanwhile, HENRIETTA texts, ignoring “John Tucker Must Die” with subtitles on the wall-mount, a Demi Lovato remix playing in the background. She emojis and emojis and emojis.

LINDA: She’s never had a Cosmo like this!

EDIE: It’s a Mai Tai, Linda. Piss off.

LINDA slinks away and pouts at a wash station.

HENRIETTA (to Edie): Jesus, why go and say that? She’s on your side.

A toilet flushes in the background. GRANDMA MONIQUE again comes out of the bathroom. She holds up a charcoal squeeze tube.

GRANDMA MONIQUE: Who wants fuckin’ scalp detox?

EDIE brings her Babyliss straight down on HENRIETTA’S part. She sees dark roots and snickers.

EDIE: Can’t afford balayage these days?

HENRIETTA: Well, tell me which shade of Just For Men you use and I’ll pick some up.

The hairdryer shuts off. EDIE turns red, fuming. WHITLEY’S and LINDA’S eyes go wide.

A toilet flushes in the background. GRANDMA MONIQUE again comes out of the bathroom.

GRANDMA MONIQUE: What bitch asked for root lift—

She turns right back in.

EDIE grabs a crimping iron and swiftly clamps down on HENRIETTA’S champagne locks. She winces and jumps from the chair.

HENRIETTA: You put that non-titanium crinkler on me again and I’ll unsubscribe from your braid vlog!

EDIE: And I’ll blacklist you from DryPro!

HENRIETTA scoops her Hermes tote from the hook below the counter, feeling for the bottle of dry shampoo inside. She angles toward the door.

HENRIETTA: In this world, everyone just sits there. Biding time until the reveal. That magical spin to the mirror. But it’s never enough, is it? IS IT!

The room gets awkward.

WHITLEY: You think about things too much, Henrietta.

WHITLEY nudges HENRIETTA through the swinging glass.

WHITLEY (cont’d): C’mon, let’s try the lash extension serum at Sephora.

EDIE and LINDA are left behind. LINDA is still by the wash station, marinating in sadness, the towel now gone from her head. EDIE wipes her chair with a disposable waffle rag and turns to her. LINDA shyly walks over and climbs in.

LINDA: Cosmo?

EDIE grabs her Babyliss, points it at LINDA’S mop, and hits the cool shot button.

EDIE: On the house.

For the last time, a toilet flushes and GRANDMA MONIQUE comes out holding a teal aerosol bottle.

GRANDMA MONIQUE: Come get some bitch-ass mousse!