A woman with a giant beehive hairstyle looks into a mirror, holding a hair dryer. She wears a polka dot dress in a retro-style illustration.

The hum of the hair dryer filled Sylvie's small bedroom, a familiar symphony that accompanied her morning ritual. She tilted her head, letting the cool shot of air set the last, lacquered tendrils into place. In the mirror, Sylvie Sharma regarded her reflection. Her beehive was a marvel. Not just a bump, or a casual sweep, but a perfectly sculpted, gravity-defying edifice of hair, lacquered to a high sheen. It was an architectural feat, each strand precisely teased, back-combed, and pinned into a sleek, impenetrable fortress that sat atop her head like a gleaming, dark brown helmet. It was her crown, her statement, and the very essence of her carefully constructed Mod identity. Sylvie was a woman of delightful contradictions. Her mother, who still spoke of Bombay with a wistful ache, would occasionally sigh at the sheer volume of hairspray Sylvie consumed, preferring the intricate elegance of a braided plait to this audacious Western style. But Sylvie, born and bred in the bustling, transforming London of the early sixties, had found her tribe among the sharp suits, geometric prints, and pulsating rhythms of the Mod scene. Today, her beehive gleamed like polished mahogany. She’d spent a full forty minutes perfecting it, a time investment she considered non-negotiable. Her kohl-rimmed eyes, a nod to both the Twiggy look and a heritage that appreciated strong, dark eyes, sparkled with anticipation. She slipped into a crisp white A-line dress with bold black polka dots, cinched See more