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“We don’t primp, Sascha. Ten minutes, and we’re usually ready.” She scoffed. “It’s a gala! You have to primp.” “If you’re female or gay,” Devon told her disgustedly. “Less of the attitude, buddy. You can judge when you get your hair cut.” He half turned to glower at her. “What’s wrong with my hair?” “It looks like someone put a pudding bowl on your head and cut around it. You’re lucky you have such a pretty face and that your hair’s so wavy you can’t tell it’s a straight cut,” she retorted.
