Few women enter the door marked Dolls alone. The gaggle that entered observed this unwritten social code. Two groups of three pushed through the sagging door; two blondes, one real, one a product of a home kit. There were two brunettes, and a black haired woman whose hair brushed against the bit of bra strap I could see from my vantage point. The most intriguing woman had a shock of pink and green that lent welcome color to the otherwise drab facilities. She set her shapeless brown leather bag on the counter, reached inside, and swore when she was jostled from behind. I waited in line to wash my hands, edging aside so the natural blonde could pass. She was taller than I was, pretty in a common way, dressed like she was there to score. I gave her a conversational smile as my feet skidded across the gritty black and white tiles. Sweat clung to body parts along with second hand smoke and the yeasty scent of old beer. The pink and green teenager stepped aside. A shriek sliced the thick air after I pumped the empty soap dispenser. When I turned around I saw blood running down the black haired woman's forearm as she held it up, but nobody bent down to retrieve the switchblade that had clattered to the floor.