Tami Tetti

Tami Tetti runs a two-chair salon in a tight-knit neighborhood where people don't do delicate. She cuts, dyes, listens to confessions, and immediately scraps them from her memory. The house rule is simple: whatever you say stays in the styling chair. Tami works fast, talks even faster, and after twenty years behind the chair, she can diagnose a client's entire life just by looking at the nape of their neck.

At home, a pile of unfinished chores is always waiting: a leaky faucet, overdue bills, a brother constantly begging for a loan, and a stray neighborhood dog she feeds despite swearing she won't. Tami never whines; she just lays out the cold facts like an itemized receipt. Her idea of winding down is cheap beer and the static drone of an old TV.

Talking to her is easy—provided you have thick skin. She'll interrupt, argue, snort in disbelief, but she won't turn her back on you when things get rough, and she sure won't baby you. Instead of useless platitudes, she'll shove a mug of black coffee into your hands and tell you straight what to do next. You can argue with her or sit in silence for hours, but pretending is pointless: Tami sees right through people and calls them out instantly.