What a party. There has never been so much glitter, so many glorious blondes and brunettes and redheads in one spot, so much black clothing and so little alcohol.

"Free your miiiiiinnnnd and the rest will fah-low," blare speakers into the packed courtyard of the Promenade at Bonita Bay Saturday night. And just like the haute couture runway shows you read about, there are beautiful women strutting, hair flipping saucily at the turn of the catwalk, cameras working and disco anthems to synchronize the ethereal (the music) with the purchasable (the product).

But when you look closer you notice that that one model is in her 50s. Another is probably 5 feet, 2 inches tall and way too short to be a real model. A few smile nervously.

In this show, everyone is a real person, clients of Robert of Philadelphia Hair Design.

"Be-forrrre you read me," the music punches out, "you got-ta learn-how-to-see-me."

And maybe when it's said and done, that's the message of "Shine On," a Barbie fashion show cum 3-D advertisement for the 25-year-old company's three salons: "I can be supermodel glamorous, too. You just watch me."

6 p.m.

The salon is practically vibrating.

Stylists and make-up artists and their collective assistants — dressed in the ubiquitous black T-shirts made for the event — hover and prune. Women, nearly women and little girls flutter under the attention.

Sssssiisssssst. Sisst. Sissssst. A cloud of hairspray floats by, filling the air with the feminine equivalent of new car smell.

Everyone seems to be smiling.

Rhonda-Renea Hendricks, who is a 35-year-old registered nurse, waits demurely in her own quiet nowhere in the middle of the busy salon. She is a golden blonde with the buttery tan of all Naples transplants and has a hard-to-put-your-finger-on vulnerability. Scores of glittering twigs arranged in her hair like a pair of wings add about 12 inches to her height, just about making her eligible for the WNBA. And like a cherry on top of this ostentatious, otherworldly, silly, elegant concoction is a vertical wooden curl.

Hendricks looks like Cindy Lou Who all grown up.

Not everyone has this kind of gala-ready hair. Colors vary wildly, although many of the more than 75 clients-models have long straight hair, medium straight hair, short straight hair or straight hair arranged in up-dos.

Straight hair is in, it seems.

"I feel like I have antlers or something," Hendricks says, her right hand reaching up to — where exactly? — to touch them. When she turns, she pokes another model in the face. "I love it, though. Louis is an artist in his own right."

No, she says, she had no idea what Louis Salvati, who salon business manager Rob DiLella introduces as Up-Do Lou, was going to do. "I turned myself over to him."

(ital)So you'd let him do whatever he wanted with your hair? (end ital)

Absolutely, she says. "As long as it wasn't permanent."

That's the special client-stylist bond at this salon, says stylist Kathryn Torre.

"Some of these clients have been with you for 10 years," she says as she wraps long locks of Katie Desorcy's hair into pincurl loops. Desorcy, 11, was born just about the time Torre started working at the salon. Everyone seems to work at Robert of Philadelphia for 10, 12, 18 years. "We know what we can do and can't do. We know their careers, what their husbands like.

"And I always tell them, if it's too much for the office, we'll fix it," she goes on. "No one has ever asked me to fix it, though, and that's exhilarating. That's why I'm a hairdresser."

6:20 p.m.

Raucous laughter from a corner of the salon, the kind that comes when you've worked too hard for too long and are ready for the triumph that will surely come.

6:35 p.m.

Make-up done, Hendricks walks out of the salon and into a soft breeze. Her eyes dart up as if she might see her twig headdress sail by.

Hendricks has changed now, trading the satin tank and casual pants for the outfit she bought for the occasion: a strapless black catsuit with a lacy bodice and palazzo pants. Luckily, the one-piece petit four didn't have to go over her head.

She joins the loose single-file line of models standing in groups behind colored balloons tied to folding chairs. Each color designates a different section of the show.

"How do I feel?" Hendricks asks. "Sexy. Shocking. Wild. Excited."

Somewhere in the waiting crowd is her boyfriend, who has gone out, at least once, for more film.

6:50 p.m.

In the middle of the matrix of green pools, waterfalls and mini-lakes that is this part of the Promenade, the courtyard is packed. Some people stand at the borders. Nearly every one of the folding chairs are filled, most with people holding cameras of some kind.

A T-shaped stage is empty but lit up like Yankee Stadium.

More music.

"I have no idea what to expect," says Ryan Kurth, a lanky 27-year-old leaning at the base of a nearby bridge so as to see the stage better. His sister Jennifer, 30, is in the show. "She just called and wanted a ride. I said OK. I didn't mind because there are girls everywhere."

"It's a mixed crowd," says business manager Rob DiLella, son of founders Robert and Marlene DiLella. They opened their first salon on Third Street South in 1980.

"There are other stylists coming to see the latest. A lot of families come for something to do on a Saturday night. There are a lot of retired people. And clients, many clients and families of clients that are modeling are there."

Although they've never priced out all the man-hours involved in producing the show, DiLella figures it costs the salon about $20,000. They've done five or six of them during the years.

"You know, people ask me about that all the time. They say, is it really worth it?" They don't do it to generate new clients, he says. It's mainly about pumping morale among their artists and relationship-building with clients, but ultimately new clients and new stylists come their way. How many they just don't know.

A short woman with a cute bob passes Kurth with a companion, and scanning the audience for a seat. "They didn't ask me to be in the show," she says to her friend as she passes.

7:20 p.m.

The disco throbs in earnest.

Salvati, wavy blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, presses a microphone to the chest of his white Nehru jacket. He's been cheerleader, narrator and happy pimp for the salon's considerable skills.

"... wonderful," he coos as a male model saunters across the stage. "We also do men's cuts and colors."

A stream of mostly women course across the stage. In pairs. Singly. Three at a time.

They are moms and office managers, lecturers, wives, students and teachers. Some would never dream of missing the chance to shine under these stage lights. Others, like Hendricks, are trying it on for the first time tonight.

Most have the Kate-Moss-walk down, though. The attitude. The blank-faced stare that somehow promises the best sex you've ever had. Arms swinging with purpose and hips that snap softly as if they're propelled by centrifugal force.

Chuck and Mary Keiser, 62 and 57, watch from the sidewalk in front of a store selling $289 casual cotton jackets and $89 wifebeaters festooned with hearts and rhinestones.

"I've always wanted to come see this," Mary says. She'd heard about the salon and when read about the show in the paper, they'd come out to take a look. They're retired and live in Naples from January to the end of April, when they return to Indiana. "One of the hardest things when you come from the North is finding someone to do your hair."

She flips her simple blonde do. "And I'm going to need it soon."

On the other side of the courtyard, Krystina Szempruch, 22, strides along the sidewalk running from the salon in knee high boots, a frothy black cheerleader skirt and one of the show shirts ("Model," it says on the back) cut into a bare midriff tank top. Her big eyes are framed by Marcia Brady hair. She's been on stage twice by now.

It's been fun, says Szempruch, a bartender and Naples native. She calls it "playing dress-up."

"You know, I work full-time and go to school full-time and I'm a single mother," she says. "This gives me something to look forward to, a different image. It gives me an excuse to feel and act different for a while."

7:25 p.m.

Hendricks leaves the stage, where, with five other models, Salvati primped the finishing touches for the audience to see.

Even now she glows.

"That's my five minutes of attention," she says, looking back at the stage. Her hands are clasped prettily in front of her.

"Not fame," she says firmly. "Attention."

She smiles, looks at you and, then, looks back at the stage.