Hydraulics squealed as the lift brought the gleaming tube car up to street level. It was a new model, an import; the kind of personal vehicle that only the upper class could afford. It's bright blue metallic paint and brilliant white marker lights stood out against its new surroundings as the platform it rested on rotated, aligning with the sidewalk. The door opened silently, driven by hidden motors, and a pair of black open-toed heels descended to meet the textured surface below.
This part of the city was older, but nicely updated in the current style. Once left to the workers of the lower classes, it was now resurgent, a neighborhood experiencing an influx of younger, more wealthy residents. Amid the bustle, the buildings shimmered in bright daylight, most of them built with a polished piano-black material and covered with glowing strips of low-energy lighting, bright enough that they overpowered the direct sunlight with neon blues, greens, and oranges. Everything was sharp corners, geometric shapes, and set with such machine perfection that no seams could be seen in any of the architecture. Even the sidewalk itself was immaculate, but grooved to prevent pedestrians from slipping.
Chanda Komassa stood to her full height, squinting as her contacts darkened over her olive eyes, adjusting from the dim of the vacuum tunnel to the full-on light of day. She sighed, mostly out of relief. It had been too long since she'd visited this sector of New Francisco, and more importantly, too long since she had gotten a haircut. Chanda could feel her sweat soaking into the heavy synthetic fabric of her restrictive business suit already, and her wavy dirty-blonde hair clung to her sticky neck. It was down to her mid-back now, and in the searing 100º F heat, she longed for a shorter style that would allow for some airflow.
The businesswoman had been away for some time, laying out new contracts in China and Kenya. She was only in her late 20s, which meant her firm kept her busy with travel and other tasks that the older employees were unwilling to complete. Instead they sent the new girl a message and she got it done, whatever it was. Not that Chanda minded at all; she was driven, motivated to become the CEO of the company. No one doubted that one day, once the current leadership retired, she would.
Small street pods moved by silently, carrying the residents of the area to work or maybe to lunch. Chanda watched them, envying their climate-controlled interiors, but resigned to walk to the salon. Even in the dense humidity, it was only two blocks. She could use the exercise, and the sun. Her naturally darker complexion kept her from turning the pasty-white of someone who stayed indoors most days, but she had noticed that she was looking paler than she liked. As she walked, a group of young teenage girls, dressed in the same precise style that informed the architecture around them, parted to allow her pass. The intricate makeup on their faces shifted as they smiled and then giggled to themselves. Chanda smiled back unconsciously, years of business training telling her that it was best to reciprocate with a pleasant reaction.
Across the road was a small storefront of tinted glass, with backlit text built into the facade above that read "SALON TWO" in simple thin lettering. She had scheduled her appointment earlier that week, to make sure that she wouldn't need to wait, and to ensure that the place was still in business. Lucky for her, it was. The last time she had visited, over three months prior, the owner had been talking about selling the business because more and more clients were moving to the trendier establishments that were springing up in the district. But despite that fact, here was Salon Two, still on the same corner and still with the same sign. Chanda waited for the traffic to stop, her wearable terminal registering with the traffic sensors that a pedestrian was waiting to cross. After a minute, the street pods paused, and a bright green path of pulsing lights appeared in the roadway, showing her the path to the opposite side. She stepped forwards, long legs making easy work of the traverse.
Salon Two was far from her apartment, it wasn't as high-end as the salons in her sector, and it certainly wasn't as fast as the laser trims one could have in street shop. Its prices were fair, and its offerings had always been basic. So why had she come here? Familiarity, she supposed. When she was in university, she'd lived in this neighborhood, working a part time job to stay out of debt. Every month for four years she'd come to this very spot to have her hair trimmed and get an hour or so of respite from her busy world. Eventually, it had become her second home, a place where she felt secure and comfortable, and there was no way that she could ever abandon it. So, every chance she had, Chanda made the quick trip through the New Francisco Vacuum Network to have herself styled.
As Chanda approached the salon, the array of sensors and cameras above its entry identified her as a returning customer with an appointment. They also made detailed scans of her body, her attire, and her hair that were immediately sent to her stylist. The doors retracted smoothly into the obsidian walls, and a rush of cool air washed over her, chilling her sweat-drenched skin. She hummed in relief at the feel of the air conditioning, and hurriedly stepped out of the sun.
Her smart contacts took a few moments to adjust to the indoor lighting, and her wearable chimed on her wrist, alerting her that the salon staff were aware of her arrival. She surveyed the familiar shape of the space as she undid the top button of her shirt to allow for additional ventilation. Something about the salon seen different. As her brain registered more and more changes, Chanda realized that the entire atmosphere of the salon had been updated. She paused, momentarily unsure if she was in the right place.
The décor, the lighting, the chairs, seemingly the entire feel of Salon Two, had been redone. Pulsing electronic music played on the sound system, sending low bass through her body. Summed together, the changes made the space feel youthful, energetic, and completely unfamiliar. Well, at least mostly unfamiliar.
One aspect of the salon appeared to have remained the same, and it the most important part of Chanda's experience: the robotic stylists. Several of them moved about the space, carrying supplies, cleaning, and conversing. She saw two in the back working with clients. These stylebots, as they we called, were older models that she suspected were manufactured in the mid-2050s. Each was nearly identical to the others, built with a friendly feminine face and body, and a synthetic appearance formed from glossy black metal, white plastic, and carbon weaves. Unlike the flawless humanoid bodies of the current android generation, these were designed before artificial flesh, and were intentionally robotic-looking to avoid falling into the uncanny valley.
If asked, Chanda would have admitted that she found the stylebots attractive. Despite her conservative appearance, she'd realized in college that she was a pansexual. Something about the perfect female form, the expressive blue eyes, and the plump black silicone lips always grabbed her attention. Plus, they all matched her in height. Even in 2072, a woman over six-feet tall was somewhat rare, and she preferred partners who could look her in the eyes. She'd often fantasized about taking one home, having her reprogrammed, and getting down to business. It wasn't an impossible fantasy, especially after the bonus from her latest promotion.
One of the stylebots looked up as she entered and approached her, motors humming gently as she took long strides across the spotless floor. The only way to tell her apart from any of the others was her "hair," a molded carbon fiber construction that approximated a shoulder-length cut with asymmetrical bangs. The others had different haircuts, each unique, that helped patrons tell them apart. Chanda recognized this one, but had never interacted with her up to this point.
"Welcome back to Salon Two, Miss Komassa! My name is Meruru, and I will be helping you today. Please, follow me." The stylebot spoke with a clear, bubbly voice that sounded so authentic it could have passed for human. It surprised Chanda, because ever since she had been coming here, the voices of the stylists had sounded noticeably synthesized. Perhaps their voice engines had been upgraded, or maybe their entire AI package had been swapped. Despite the unfamiliarity, Chanda followed, occasionally glancing down at the stylebot's seductively swaying hips. The android's designer hadn't left anything to the imagination. Such a pervert.
"Please have a seat here! This one is my station," said Meruru, gesturing to one of the sturdy metal styling chairs. They were definitely new, and judging by the brand and the workmanship, very expensive. Chanda turned to sit.
"I can take your jacket if you like," came Meruru's voice from behind her.
