Isabella Montgomery's manicured fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the glass conference table at Royal Entertainment, her reflection warped in its polished surface. Around her, the "crisis team" droned on, their voices blending into static.
"We've mobilized sociologists from Ivy Leagues to decry 'Mama's Girl' as societal decay," her agent Kevin announced, laser pointer flicking across a PowerPoint slide titled *Operation: Nepo Nuke*. "Top critics will label it *parasitism masquerading as profession*."
Isabella's gaze drifted to the window, where a billboard of Sophia Sterling loomed over Manhattan, her neon hair glowing like a radioactive halo. *How had the girl who couldn't act her way out of a paper bag become the internet's darling?*
"Sophia's a fad," Kevin insisted, mistaking her silence for doubt. "Once she starts shilling diet teas and crypto scams, the mob'll turn. We've already leaked her 'brand deals' to Lucian's circle."
Isabella's phone buzzed—a TMZ alert: *"Sophia Sterling's 'Skyrocket Hair' Breaks Internet!"*
She crushed the device under her palm.
---
**Meanwhile: The Sterling Atelier of Absurdity**
Sophia lounged in her mother's penthouse salon, watching a stylist gape at her inspiration photo: a K-pop idol who'd apparently been electrocuted by a rainbow.
"You want… *this*?" The stylist gestured weakly at the screen. "The *vertical* ponytail? The *chartreuse* streaks?"
Sophia sipped her matcha latte, the green foam clinging to her smirk. "Mom adores avant-garde. Let's make her *proud*."
Three hours later, Sophia emerged—a walking Lisa Frank nightmare. Her hair defied gravity in a spiraling tower of neon extensions, each strand tipped with Swarovski crystals. Her makeup? A sunset on acid. Her outfit? A sequined jumpsuit that could blind pilots.
Eleanor Sterling paused mid-conference call, her razor-sharp bob swaying in disbelief. "Darling, you look… *bold*."
"Your vision, CEO," Sophia purred, snapping a selfie. "Hashtag *Mother Knows Best*."
---
**The Gallery Gambit**
Sophia's Lamborghini screeched to a halt outside the MoMA, her hair visible from space. Paparazzi swarmed as she strutted inside, her platform boots clacking like a deranged metronome.
The crowd parted—a sea of black turtlenecks gasping at the human glitter bomb in their midst. Mrs. Li, Eleanor's most insufferable socialite rival, choked on her champagne. "Sophia! Still… *performing*?"
Sophia twirled, her ponytail nearly decapitating a Warhol. "Retired. Now I'm a full-time *art piece*. Mom's favorite installation."
Eleanor, trailing behind, oscillated between horror and pride. Her daughter—a grotesque masterpiece, yes, but *hers*.
---
**Live Chat Detonation**
[IS SHE WEARING A TESLA COIL AS A HAIRSTYLE?!]
[This is what happens when trust funds mate with LSD.]
[I unironically love it???]
Isabella's team watched, slack-jawed, as Sophia's ratings skyrocketed. The "Mama's Girl" hashtag birthed memes, merch, and a Change.org petition to make her hair a national monument.
Kevin's "sociologists" were now trending as #BoomerHaters. Lucian's leaked "brand deals" backfired when Gucci announced a *Sophia Core* collection.
---
**Epilogue: The Jester Crown**
That night, Sophia FaceTimed her father from the penthouse rooftop, her hair still defying the laws of physics.
"Dad, be honest—do I look like a rejected Power Ranger?"
Alexander grinned, zooming in on a crystal strand. "You look like *hope*, sweetheart. The hope that one day, we too can not give a damn."
Eleanor, eavesdropping from her office, ordered a second martini. Her daughter had weaponized absurdity—and won.
Isabella, scrolling through the carnage, hurled her phone into her infinity pool. Some wars weren't fought with logic.
They were won with glitter, spite, and a vertical ponytail tall enough to pierce the zeitgeist.