“Will do, and thank you.”

I pluck my cranberry-colored clutch off the desk and walk backward toward the elevator, not even the slightest bit unsteady in my sky-high Jimmy Choos. “Enjoy your ‘weekend,’” I tell Ramon, knowing that although today’s Tuesday, Ramon has Wednesday and Thursday off.

When I step into the elevator, the button for the eighty-sixth floor is already lit up, courtesy of Ramon and the building’s fancy tech. I give a happy sigh and start to anticipate the prospect of crawling into bed and getting a few hours’ sleep before I have to be at my hair appointment at four.

And if for a second my mind registers the depressing thought that the most exciting part of my day has already come and gone?

I push it away.

Georgie

TUESDAY AFTERNOON

“What are we doing today, love? More of the same?”

I smile in thanks at the girl who just brought me a glass of champagne before turning my attention to Stefan, the guy who’s been doing my hair for the past three years.

“Same old,” I confirm, taking a sip of the Moët et Chandon. “The tiniest bit off the bottom to keep the ends fresh, touch up the honey highlights.”

Now, I don’t want to be vain. But if I were going to be vain . . .

My hair’s totally my best feature.

See, truthfully, I’m barely passably pretty. Attractive, sure, but not stop-traffic gorgeous like my mom. My features are in the right spot and all. But my boobs, butt, eyes, mouth . . . more or less, average.

So while I may not wake up looking like a Park Avenue princess, when you have a mother who started a beauty empire, you learn your way around a contour palette and a Tom Ford eyeshadow pan at an early age.

My hair, though? Well, I fake that a little bit too with the highlights, but mostly it’s all me. It’s long and thick and shiny, and Page Six actually deemed my distinct “cinnamon-sugar waves” as the hairstyle to watch last year. Based on that write-up, Stefan got a handful of new clients demanding “the Georgie.”

You’re probably rolling your eyes right now, but come on. At least admit it’s a little cool to have a hairstyle named after you. I mean, it did wonders for Jennifer Aniston, right?

I chat with Stefan about who’s likely to be the next Bachelorette while he applies my color, then his assistant brings me a big old stack of Us Weeklys to peruse while my highlights take hold. After scanning the “Who Wore It Better” section (Beyoncé, always), I turn my attention to my phone and begin to put together my evening plans.

There’s a black-tie fundraiser at the Met, but my parents will probably be there, and I’m not in the mood to listen to my mom critique my dress while my dad tries desperately to drag me into business talk with his colleagues. Pass.

A friend of a friend is having a birthday dinner at Babbo, but she’s one of those girls who likes to talk about who she knows rather than actually getting to know anybody. Not in the mood for that either.

I bite my lip and mull over a text message from Evan. He’s hot. We hooked up a few times a couple months back, and I’m pretty sure that his “get together at my place” is a polite booty call. And though it’s been a long, long time since I’ve gotten any of that . . .

Hmm, no. Not in the mood for that either.

I text my best friend. Marley Hamlen’s the daughter of a brainiac angel investor who pretty much dominated Silicon Valley before moving to New York. Marley’s been my right-hand girl ever since she transferred to Trinity in the third grade and promptly punched Sena Corlin in the nose after Sena called Marley “new money.”

Who wouldn’t want to be best friends with that? I claimed that feisty goodness as my BFF.

(And don’t go feeling too bad for Sena. When she was sixteen, she disappeared for a week and came back with a slimmer, much-improved nose. Told everyone it was because she had a deviated septum courtesy of Marley’s punch. Everyone together now—let’s lift a skeptical eyebrow.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Texting Marley.

You back in town? Plans tonight?

I flip through the magazine while I wait for Marley to confirm whether or not she’s returned from her cousin’s extended bachelorette weekend in Vegas.

I’m baaaaaack, Marley texts. Definitely want to get out, but count me in for dinner only, nothing late night. Vegas nearly killed me. When did we get OLD?

It’s been downhill since 22. In the mood for a filet. STK? Wolfgang? Del Frisco?

Marley sends the thinky-face emoji back, followed by, Del Frisco. If we go early enough we can catch some of the hot after-work guys in suits.

What about Jon? I ask, referring to her on-again, off-again train wreck of a relationship with a tattoo artist who I’m pretty sure she’s dating only to piss off her dad. When it comes to her love life, Marley is twenty-seven going on thirteen.

Cheated. Again, she texts. Moving on. Need a clean-cut grown-up who doesn’t think biting his fingernails counts as personal grooming.

Gross. We will martini-solve the problem tonight. 7?

Perfect, she confirms, followed by the kiss-face emoji that I’ve learned is her “conversation over” send-off.

I put my phone away as Stefan’s assistant comes to rinse the dye out of my hair, and then for the next half hour Stefan and I analyze whether his boyfriend’s refusal to turn the home office into a nursery means he’s baby-never or baby-not-right-now as he trims my ends.

I’m firmly in camp just ask him, but Stefan’s holding strong in the I’m gonna hack his email account approach. So. That’s healthy.

I usually style my own hair in loose waves with a big-barrel curling iron, but Stefan likes it blown out super-straight and sleek, so I let him do his thing. By the time I’m done, it’s past six. Just enough time to run a quick errand before heading over to the restaurant to meet Marley.

The salon I go to, John Barrett (duh), is conveniently right atop Bergdorf Goodman. Primping and shopping all in one place—heaven.

I head to the baby section, which I’m becoming increasingly familiar with as more and more of my friends start popping out kids.

I make a beeline for the Burberry onesie I mentioned to Ramon this morning.

Despite Andrew Mulroney’s snide remarks about babies and designer clothing, we all know that it’s not really about the babies. It’s about the moms. And Marta will love this for her daughter, I know she will.