The Prime Directive of Perfect Hair

 

The Prime Directive of Perfect Hair

The USS Enterprise hummed softly as it sailed through the stars, its warp core pulsing in steady rhythm. The ship’s crew moved about their duties with practiced efficiency, monitoring sensor readouts, adjusting course vectors, and—on one particular deck—marveling at something completely unrelated to space exploration.

Lieutenant Commander Veronica Lodge stepped into the turbolift, her presence alone enough to command attention. It wasn’t just the sharpness of her Starfleet uniform, the way the black and red fabric hugged her form with precision. No, it was her hair.

Long. Dark. Glossy enough to reflect the ambient light of the ship’s control panels. It flowed over her shoulders in perfect, bouncy waves, as though the artificial gravity of the ship had been programmed to worship it.

Across the bridge, Ensign Betty Cooper frowned at her own reflection in the glossy surface of her workstation. Her blonde ponytail—standard, functional, efficient—was a stark contrast to the absolute luxury Veronica flaunted.

“Betty,” Veronica said, stepping up beside her, “I know that look.”

Betty sighed, fingers tightening around her console. “I just don’t get it, Ronnie. We live in space. Artificial gravity, life support, replicators. Why does your hair look like you just stepped out of a 1960s holo-novel, and mine looks like I just finished a warp core diagnostic?”

Veronica smirked, flicking her communicator badge with one perfectly manicured nail. “Because, darling, while you were learning quantum mechanics, I was studying the real prime directive: haircare.”

Lieutenant Reggie Mantle, seated at the helm, rolled his eyes. “If I have to hear about Veronica’s deep-conditioning routine one more time, I swear I’m transferring to Deep Space Nine.”

Betty crossed her arms. “There’s no way you get those waves naturally.”

Veronica gasped in mock offense. “Are you suggesting I use a replicated styling tool?” She placed a hand on her chest dramatically. “Betty, I would never.”

Betty raised an eyebrow. “Computer, scan Veronica’s quarters for non-standard grooming equipment.”

The ship’s AI chirped in response. “Three unauthorized items detected, including a 23rd-century ionic hair steamer, an Orion silk conditioning wrap, and an illegal Romulan shine serum.”

The bridge fell silent.

Veronica huffed. “I knew I should have set up a dampening field.”

Betty smirked, arms crossed. “Busted.”

Captain Archie Andrews turned in his chair, shaking his head. “Ladies, as much as I love hearing about the Federation’s most important diplomatic tool—” he pointed at Veronica’s hair—“we have a job to do.”

Veronica sighed dramatically, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Fine. But if we run into any alien civilizations today, I’m making first contact. The universal translator might glitch, but perfect hair? That speaks every language.”

Betty rolled her eyes, pulling her ponytail a little tighter.

Maybe one day, she’d let it down.

But not today.

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