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She hums, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “I guess that makes sense,” she mutters, flipping to another page. “I feel like being an omega would complicate things. Like slick, it feels invasive.” She points at her magazine. “Look at this, panties that absorb slick. What is this world coming to?”
I don’t engage with her. It’s easier this way, letting her assumptions mask the truth, which is that being an omega isn’t just a label for me—it’s a life sentence. Plus, those panties have saved my hide on more than one occasion.
I hum at her in encouragement, though I already knew all this.
About twenty years ago, the world as we knew it changed forever. They called it the Omega Virus, but it wasn’t like any disease we’d seen before. It rewrote human DNA, creating a new social hierarchy. Most folks stayed the same—we call them betas now. But others? They changed. Alphas emerged, strong and dominant, while omegas became rare and highly sought after. It’s like mother nature decided to play a cosmic joke on humanity, and we’re still figuring out the punchline.
The other teenagers are now known as omegas and alphas.
Scientists still don’t completely understand what triggered the change in evolution, just that it happened. If they asked me, I’d call it devolution, not evolution. Alphas go absolutely berserk if they scent an omega they want to rut.
“Anyway,” she carries on, “I got tested four times.” She stares directly at me as I wash her hair out. Why do clients do this? Babe, look away. “And each result said I had latent omega genetics. I just need to find the right alpha to wake me up.”
I really want to tell her not to wish for that. She doesn’t want that kind of attention, but the world is still far too new to this evolution and too full of hormones to make the right decision, and by right decision, I mean not hoping to be something you aren’t. Instead, they celebrate alphas and omegas.
I don’t say that though, because if she has the omega genetics and the right alpha walks through the front door, then she’s fucked, literally and figuratively.
Betas are romanticizing it.
Not a single one I talk to wonders where all the omegas are. Oh, we’re here, but we’re just hiding because we easily get dick drunk.
“I want to go to the alpha and omega gathering for the East Coast that’s coming up,” she remarks. “Have you been tested?”
Her question throws me off completely, so it takes me a whole minute to realize she is talking to me. “Yeah,” I tell her, which isn’t a lie. I have been tested more times than I can count, because unlike my client, I wanted the results to be a lie.
“And?” she drawls, her eyes wide, then she snorts when I don’t answer her in the millisecond she gives me. “Beta, right?”
Why does she have to say it like it’s a curse?
“I’m actually proud to be a beta.” Oh, now that is a bold-faced lie. I don’t even want to exist in this new world. Send me back to the eighties and leave me there to live in peace.
As I work on her hair, I can’t help but think about how different the world is now. Alphas, betas, omegas—labels that didn’t exist when my aunt was a teen, but now define everything.
“How’s my hair look?” she asks, because she loves to talk about herself, and inquiring about my life shows far too much empathy. Or is it sympathy?
“Honestly?” I ask, because I don’t know how to tell my mouth to think before speaking. “It looks amazing.” I almost got all the black out in one sitting. “But you’ll need a treatment.”
“Oh, just do it now.” She waves her hand like it’s no big deal.
It is.
“You’ll have to schedule a treatment,” I tell her with my best manager voice—the very one I’ve been practicing in my mirror. I’d like to think I’m getting damn good at it.
“Just do it now,” she states.
“Can’t.” I tap her shoulder. “Sit up slowly.”
“Why the hell not?” She whips her head around.
“Because you’ve already run two hours past your allotted time, and a treatment goes outside of your quoted cost,” I say as politely as I can. My boss gave her a quote, and she is sticking hard to it, trying to milk that quote for all it’s worth. There is no way I am hanging around another hour.
“You’re telling me I can’t get a treatment tonight.” She does that little head bob all the girls from Puritan City do when they are about to throw down.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” I walk over to my station. I already cut her hair after her first round of foils. This is the second, and if I do anything else to her hair, it is literally going to fall out. Also, I’m not budging on this.
The client is not always right. Actually, more often than not, they are so wrong, it hurts. I love telling clients just how wrong they are, but I need this job, and my boss is the only one willing to pay me under the table, no questions asked. I need that more than the air I breathe.
“I’ll leave you a terrible review,” she says as she flops in my chair.
