The wave rises from the top of her head and rolls sideways to her left in one perfect curl, an S held at the exact moment before it breaks. It has never broken. In every frame we have kept, it curls the same way, to the same height, in the same hot pink.

Around it she is composed: pale pink brows, a single pearl at the outer corner of each eye, rose-nude lips. Chartreuse satin to the collar, a cropped black velvet bolero, red gloves in one hand only.

She treats the beach promenade like a runway and the runway like a beach promenade. Noa books for beauty, swimwear, colour campaigns and any brief that wants motion with no movement.

The sphere is pure silver, glossy, and pierced horizontally by one long pin with a ball end. It has not moved since the first reference frame. Neither has her expression, which carries a dry hint of scepticism and has been used on everything from cyclists to pastry.

She dresses to match its seriousness: a houndstooth double-breasted suit, lilac satin buttoned to the collar, a narrow red tie, burgundy platform loafers. White brows, a row of tiny studs along each brow bone, amber spheres at her ears. Everything round is a decision.

Margit reads authority without effort, and age as an asset rather than a topic. She books for formalwear, beauty, luxury and anything that needs a woman who has seen every trend arrive and has declined most of them.

Start with the stripe. It runs up the front of the cube, off-centre, always on his right. That one decision is the difference between Samir and a very good imitation of Samir, and it is checked in every frame we keep.

The rest is composed with the same care: a thin platinum moustache, rose-tinted glasses in fine gold wire, a silver star on one cheekbone. A mustard corduroy suit with a cluster of shiny plastic cherries on the lapel, delivered without a flicker of irony.

He is the most ironic face on the roster and the least amused. Samir books for fragrance, eyewear, menswear and any brief that needs wit with its mouth firmly closed.

It runs from the middle of his forehead back over the crown, a flat smooth plate standing straight up, in a blue that matches his eyebrows. The sides are slicked down in the same cobalt. He is clean-shaven, which leaves the fin nowhere to hide and no reason to.

He wears a tomato-red double-breasted suit, a cobalt shirt, and a white bow tie with black polka dots. Black patent loafers. A line of sapphire studs down his left jaw. Porto has seen a great deal of colour on its quays, and has no comment.

Augustin is faintly amused by everything and visibly bored by nothing. He books for menswear, spirits, travel and any campaign that wants a man who has been in the sun for fifty years and kept his composure.

The cone is about one and a half times the height of her face, perfectly smooth, dyed a violet that her eyebrows echo. It tapers to a point and stays there. Gold leaf sits on both eyelids; hammered gold discs hang at her ears. The effect is regal and entirely unforced.

She wears coral bouclé with a turquoise satin bow at the neck and gold pointed mules, a palette that sounds like an argument and reads as a decision. The high-bridged nose and deep-set gaze do the rest.

Lucía holds a room without raising anything but her chin. She books for luxury, jewellery, hospitality and any campaign that wants colour with cheekbones behind it.

Where Margit has one sphere, Priya has two, each nearly the size of her head, set side by side with a centre parting slicked flat between them. A thin gold chain runs from one to the other across her forehead. It is a very precise piece of engineering, and she treats it as nothing.

The rest is quick and graphic: a sharp wing of canary-yellow liner, mauve-rose lips, a choker of large pearls, an olive tweed suit over hot-pink satin, yellow block-heel loafers. Her expression is cool and slightly aloof, as though the tram is late.

Priya books for high-fashion editorial, jewellery, accessories and beauty, and for any brief that wants symmetry with a pulse.

It is not a hat. That is the first thing to understand. The brim is made entirely of copper-ginger hair, lacquered into a perfectly flat disc at forehead level, the sides underneath cut short. In profile it is a horizon line.

He keeps the rest of the look loud and perfectly buttoned: a red ribbed turtleneck, a lime-green and black large-check suit, chunky black derbies and white socks. Almost-white brows, a single silver hoop at the centre of his lower lip, and the slightly ironic look of a man who is sure about the weather.

Bruno suits Swiss precision turned slightly sideways. He books for menswear, streetwear, watches and any brief that wants a clean line with a joke in it.

It stands upright behind him like a full moon, or a halo with better tailoring. The hair at his temples and nape is slicked flat and tight into it. White brows. Small carved jade discs at the ears. Nothing here is accidental, and nothing here is explained.

He wears a shocking-pink velvet suit over a mint shirt, with a black silk scarf knotted at the throat and black velvet slippers. It should not work against a Shanghai skyline. It does, because his face never negotiates with the clothes.

Liang is calm in the way that makes everyone else adjust. He books for luxury, hospitality, watches and spirits, and for any brief where a quiet man in pink should be the loudest thing in the frame.

They stand ear to ear like the teeth of a comb, or a crown with the decoration removed, the middle blade tallest, the sides shaved close. They are flat, smooth, black and glossy. He wears them with the unconcerned grace of a man who has never had to think about hats.

The suit is cream double-breasted, the shirt cobalt, the bow tie red with white dots, the loafers cobalt suede. Gold-leaf freckles are scattered across the nose and cheekbones, and a composed, faintly amused look completes the arrangement.

Caio is Rio without the postcard: relaxed, upright, impossible to hurry. He books for fragrance, menswear, travel and any campaign that wants warmth with a precise silhouette.

The column rises straight from the crown, perfectly vertical and glossy, the sides slicked down tight. A single silver comb is pushed into the left side, always the left. It is the only part of the look that suggests she did this herself.

Copper brows, a fine line of seed pearls under both eyes, terracotta lips, a tiny gold stud in each nostril, oversized pearl clusters at the ears. Then an emerald velvet suit, red gingham buttoned all the way up, and red platform heels. London barely looked up.

Ife is composed, slightly aloof, and extremely photogenic from the top deck. She books for beauty, accessories, fashion and any brief that needs ten centimetres of height with attitude.

The bar rests flat across her crown like a level beam, square at both ends, ice-lilac, glossy. It extends a full head-width beyond each ear. She walks under doorways at an angle that has stopped being comment-worthy. Her sides are slicked flat so that nothing competes with it.

The rest is soft and exact: pearl-white brows, a small silver hoop through the outer end of the right one, rose-pink gradient lips. A lilac pussy-bow blouse, a chartreuse bouclé jacket and skirt, sheer tights, white patent Mary Janes.

Seo-yeon is poised and faintly playful, the youngest on the roster and one of the most precise. She books for beauty, skincare, youth fashion and any brief where a perfect horizontal line is the point.

Desmond's hair begins as a perfectly ordinary nineties hi-top fade, tight at the sides, and then keeps going. It rises to twice the height of his head, widens at the top, and finishes in a razor-flat emerald plane. A thin gold line is shaved through his left eyebrow.

He dresses to hold his own against it: a mustard corduroy double-breasted suit, a pale-pink shirt, a burgundy bow tie, two-tone cream-and-brown loafers. A dense, sharply lined beard keeps the face grounded. The expression is warm, charismatic, unhurried.

He is the most approachable eccentric on the roster, and the tallest from the top of the hair. Desmond books for menswear, grooming, music, spirits and any campaign that needs presence at altitude.