Fawn is the kind of woman one man will never satisfy. Baiting men like a matador drawing the bull ever closer with his red cape, she leaves them empty and bleeding in the dust.

Undoubtedly she's beautiful, with her heart-shaped face, exotic dark eyes and skin as pristine as a saucer of Devonshire cream. But I think her real allure lies in something else: Confidence, or as the Cowardly Lion calls it in the Wizard of OZ, noive. 

This is a woman who has been engaged eight times, married twice and has left at least one man at the altar. When Jilted Joe demanded she return the shower gifts, she claimed they were community property and she was entitled to half.

Fawn is a client of my beauty boutique, Salon Verve. Although, I'm not sure where I currently stand with her since I expressed mild sympathy for the latest guy who'd gone from the status of Mr. Perfect to that of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a chair. She hasn't been in for a few months, so I guess I'm on her shit list.

My Thursday schedule is a rough one. I start at seven in the morning and go non-stop until six in the evening. And, as the owner of the business, I have to balance awareness of the entire salon's activities with attentiveness to the needs of my clients.

A ruckus pulls my attention in the direction of Laurel, my soft-spoken receptionist, who is attempting to talk over someone demanding to speak with me. I recognize the voice, and my stomach does a swan dive.

Fawn pushes her way through to my station, and I can see her hair has been bleached the texture of straw. She dramatically drops into the empty chair of an adjoining station and puts on a pouty mouth. "Nikki, I know I don't have an appointment, but I need you to fix my hair - today!" 

At the moment, I'm giving a perm to an elderly female client named Lucille. Her fine silver hair is full of rods, one of which I'm unrolling in order to test the curl.

I give Fawn a you've-got-your-nerve look and reach into a cupboard for neutralizer. As I spread the liquid across Lucille's scalp in practiced, even movements, Fawn clutches my forearm, piercing the skin with her industrial-strength fingernails. 

"This is an emergency, Nikki, I swear," she says as I pry her fingers from my arm. Every hairdresser in the place has had Fawn for a client at least once. I'm the only one that's been willing to put up with her crap. The room goes suspiciously quiet at the possibility of an overdue show-down.

I decide it's not professional to get into an argument with a spoiled prima donna. Leaning into where Lucille is pretending to mind her own business, I ask, "Will you excuse me for a minute? I need to have a quick word with this lady."

"Take your time, dear," she answers and rewards me with a dramatic wink. "I'm getting caught up on the celebrity gossip, thanks to 'People' magazine. Besides, if anyone can fix that botched hair job, it's you." Have I told you lately that I love you, Lucille?

I pull Fawn out of the chair and steer her into an  empty massage room. After long seconds of a mutual stare-down and no forthcoming apology, I cave: "What do you expect me to do, Fawn? I'm entirely booked-up. But I think Paula still has a few slots open this afternoon."

The corner of one of her eyelids goes spastic, and she looks ready to let rip a scream to rival any banshee. Instead, she starts to cry.

"My father flew in from London last night for a board meeting and called this morning to say he has a few hours free and wants to meet for dinner. Please, Nikki, you've got to help me. I promise I'll make it worth your while. I can't have my father see me like this."

I'm a sucker when it comes to relationships between father and daughters. Right now Fawn isn't looking so confident, and maybe at some level I'm enjoying it. I hope she appreciates this.

"Okay, I'll be done with my scheduled clients at six o'clock. Come back then and I'll see what I can do for you, and just so we're clear, Fawn, I can't fix what's been done to your hair in one session."

She grabs me and air kisses both my cheeks. "You're awesome, Nikki. I'll be back at five o'clock in case someone cancels." Before I can protest, she's out the door.

After I finish with Lucille, I have time for a quick lunch. As I blend protein powder, fresh fruit and yogurt, I think about what it would be like to have a father who 'fits' you in during a business trip. My father and I talk every day and we're as compatible as fish and chips. What if Fawn's difficulty in staying with one man for long is a result of her father's apparent indifference? Maybe I can try to be less judgmental.

Fawn lucks out when one of my clients has to reschedule. Once in my chair, she's focussed on her Android smartphone and a recent issue of 'Vogue' magazine. I'm cool with that because I'm too tired to fake small talk.

I condition Fawn's hair, cut away two inches of the damaged ends and weave silky blue extensions into the blond color for a little glamour. She wears a million-watt smile as I spin the chair so she can appreciate how it looks from front to back.

I'm surprised to see a black limo pull in front of the salon as I add up my charges. Fawn moves to the front window and signals the driver to come to the doorway. A dignified, silver-haired chauffeur waits patiently while she piles hair products and scented candles on the countertop. Finally, in a haughty tone she addresses him. "Antonio, tell Daddy I need to use his credit card - I've left mine in my other purse."

Antonio returns with a card in his gloved hand. Fawn snatches it away without a word and shoves her goody bag into his chest. She leaves me with a $50.00 tip and more air kisses.

In a haze of exhaustion, I watch the limousine merge carefully with oncoming traffic and realize, just like Daddy, I've been played.

Yup, the chick's got noive in spades.