Our TG Caption

Bertha strutted back into the Alteration Room, her heels clicking with a confidence that felt *almost* too big for the dingy space. Nicolle still stood there, silent, inspecting her nails with that perfect, slightly smug smirk. She hadn’t said a word since the transformation, but she *didn’t need to*—her whole body language practically *oozed* salon queen attitude.

Bertha bit her lip, watching her for a moment. The change had gone down *so* smooth. It made her wonder—how much more could she push it?

She turned, glancing over her shoulder at Dennis. He still looked a little shell-shocked, his forehead glistening with nervous sweat.

"You doing okay there, big guy?" she teased, giving him a slow blink. "I *know* it’s a lot to take in."

Dennis hesitated, looking from Bertha to his wife, then back again. “She’s… I mean, she looks *completely* different.”

Bertha let out a bubbly giggle, stepping closer, her manicured fingers running down the length of Nicolle’s stiff, teased hair. "Oh, *duh*. That’s kinda the *point*." She gave Dennis a conspiratorial wink. "Don’t worry, babe. She’s still *your* Nicolle. Just, like… *way* more fabulous."

Not that Nicolle was reacting to any of this. She just *stood* there, her weight shifted onto one hip, arms crossed like she was waiting for something. Like she *belonged* in that chair, in a salon, in this whole new identity Bertha had slapped onto her.

Bertha exhaled dramatically, tossing her ponytail. "Ugh, whatever. I wanna try something." She turned to Nicolle and flashed a slow, teasing smile. "Mind if I step in with you, babe? I *sooo* wanna see how it feels."

Nicolle blinked, slow and heavy-lashed, but said nothing.

Bertha didn’t need permission.

She slipped inside the chamber beside her, the sterile white walls humming faintly as the door *hissed* shut behind them. She barely had time to adjust her stance when—

*BZZZT.*

The machine activated.

The change hit like *lightning*.

The whole world *lurched*.

###

When the door slid open again, Bertha—*no, BOSS BERTHA*—stepped out first, exuding the effortless confidence of a woman who *owned* every room she walked into. Her hips swayed, her polished acrylics tapped against the touchscreen on her phone, and her expression was unreadable behind a pair of oversized sunglasses.

Her hair, still a flawless shade of auburn, had transformed—voluminous, layered, *expertly* blown out with a touch of caramel balayage that practically screamed *expensive salon chair*. Her lab coat? Gone. Now, she wore a fitted, deep-red wrap dress that hugged her body in all the right ways, cinched with a bold black belt. Over it, a cropped leather jacket with *just* enough edge to make her look both stylish and *completely in charge*. And her boots? Replaced with patent leather heels sharp enough to stab someone.

She flicked her sunglasses down her nose and *smirked*.

"Ugh, *finally*," she sighed, her tone full of effortless authority. "I *swear*, these quick-change packages always *feel* like they take forever."

Behind her, Nicolle stepped out—only, she *wasn’t* the same Nicolle who had walked in.

Her platinum-blonde hair was even *bigger*, teased into impossibly perfect curls, cascading down her shoulders like a blonde bombshell dream. Her makeup was heavier, more *precise*—glossy pink lips, thick lashes, expertly blended contour that made her cheekbones *pop*. Her outfit had changed too: a pale pink bodycon dress, ruched in all the right places, with sky-high heels that made her legs look endless. A delicate gold chain with a tiny pair of scissors dangled from her neck.

And her expression?

Gone was the smug, independent energy. Nicolle now stood *perfectly poised*, hands folded neatly in front of her, her head tilted *just so* in a deferential, *doll-like* manner. Her lips were parted slightly—like she was *about* to speak but never quite would. She blinked slow and sweet, like every thought in her head had been *softened*, *sweetened*, *simplified*.

She was *waiting*.

For instruction.

For approval.

For *Bertha*.

The new boss barely looked at her before tossing her sunglasses onto a counter, stretching her arms like she’d just finished a long but *satisfying* day. "*God*, I swear, these touch-ups are a *lifesaver*," she said, rolling her shoulders. "Like, I *know* I already looked *perfect*, but a little boost never hurt anyone, right?"

She turned slightly, finally acknowledging Nicolle with a glance—assessing, appraising. Then she gave a *tiny* nod of approval.

Nicolle *lit up* at the gesture, a soft exhale of relief slipping past her glossy lips.

Dennis, still standing there like someone had *dropped him into the wrong movie*, cleared his throat. “Uh… Nicolle?”

Bertha *blinked*, suddenly noticing him for the first time.

Her nose scrunched slightly, like she’d just noticed a *coffee stain* on a designer bag.

Her expression flickered between *mild confusion* and *polite amusement* as she looked at him. "*Oh*," she drawled, tilting her head. "Wait—who even *is* this guy?"

Kelli—because of course now there was a *Kelli*, a gum-snapping, pink-haired lab tech perched at the control panel—leaned in, chewing obnoxiously. "*No clue, boss*," she said, barely glancing at Dennis. "Said his name’s, like, Dennis or something?"

Bertha raised an eyebrow. "*Dennis?*" She looked at Nicolle, who just stood there, waiting, looking like the *sweetest* little salon doll.

Dennis’ face twisted in bewilderment. “She’s—she’s my wife.”

Silence.

Bertha blinked at him.

Then she *laughed*—a rich, indulgent sound that dripped with disbelief.

"*Oh*, honey," she purred, shaking her head, one perfectly manicured hand waving dismissively. "No. No, no, no. *That* doesn’t sound right."

Kelli cackled behind her, shaking her head like this was the *funniest* thing she’d heard all day.

"Like, *duh*, Nicolle’s *not married*," Bertha continued smoothly. "She’s my best stylist. *My* girl. We, like, *built* Bombshell Beautique together. Right, babe?"

She turned to Nicolle, expecting *confirmation*.

And, *god*, Nicolle delivered.

She nodded, slow and dreamy, her lips parting as if she *wanted* to say something. But, as always, she didn’t.

She just stood there, smiling, waiting, looking *so perfectly pretty* and *so perfectly Bertha’s*.

Dennis paled. “No, that’s—”

Bertha clucked her tongue. "*Mm-mm, babe*," she interrupted smoothly, already checking her phone like she was *so over* this conversation. "I *literally* don’t know what to tell you. Like, you *must* be confused or something? ‘Cause Nicolle’s *been* with me for *years*."

Kelli giggled, typing something into the console. “Should I, like… call security or whatever?”

Dennis took a step back. His head was *spinning*. His heart pounded. Everyone else—*everyone but him*—saw this as *normal*. Nicolle, silent and perfect, had no hesitation, no flicker of recognition.

He was *alone* in remembering the truth.

Bertha, bored now, checked her nails. "*Ugh*, I have an appointment soon." She shot Nicolle a quick, knowing smile. "*Let’s* go, babe. We’ve got a salon to run."

And just like that, Nicolle *followed her out*, heels clicking in perfect rhythm.

Dennis was left standing there, utterly *alone*.