I'm frightened of the Hairdressing Clown; simultaneously drawn and repulsed by her clingy blouse, her hiphuggers and her perfectly manicured nails.
She belongs-- inasmuch as a Hairdressing Clown can "belong" to anyone-- to a hairstylist at the same salon I go to... a hairstylist I've never seen... a hairstylist who may or may not really exist.
Perhaps the Hairdressing Clown comes alive a night and uses that station for her own nefarious purposes.
What do you do with your white brush, studded belt and golden hairdryer?
What diabolical things has that single latex glove seen?
Oh, Hairdressing Clown, why do you haunt me so?