Beauty contest?

The announcement went out and gorgeous girls responded from all over the nation. But after being put through a routine that would have exhausted a water buffalo, they asked each other in amazement: This is a——
By HENRY SLESAR
The gal who won this one had to be more than beautiful.
The girl in the yellow bathing suit plucked out her hairpins in exasperation and flung them on the vanity table. The redhead seated beside her looked over understandingly.
I know how you feel, honey, she said. I had an electro-perm last week, and just look at me. You think they'd have a few facilities around this dump. She surveyed the room disconsolately. It was small and jerry-built, with only two tables and two mirrors meant to be shared by six girls. It was a duplicate of all the thirty cabins, strung out like a serpentine railroad train on the edge of the Omaha Spaceport.
I hate myself when I look like this, the girl in the bathing suit moaned. She looked in the mirror critically. The face that looked back was actually very pretty, with its wide-set eyes and clear, smooth planes. Her figure was equally attractive; it had to be, to qualify for the finals of the Miss Outer Space contest.
We all feel the same way, the redhead said sympathetically. Oh, they're trying to be nice though. Captain Lester—you know him, the cute one with the freckles—he was really sweet. But these space jockeys just don't understand women, I guess. She sighed, but then smiled reminiscently as she recalled the captain's embarrassment upon showing the girls their quarters.
Well, I'm sorry I ever came, said the other girl, tugging at her blonde curls with a comb. Her eyes blurred with tears.
Hey, Cleveland!
Another blonde, wearing an electric-blue sweater, scurried over to the unhappy girl. Her face was lit with excitement, and her high heels clicked enthusiastically. Can I borrow your Chanel? she said.
What for? said the redhead sourly. Got a date?
Maybe, said blue-sweater mysteriously.