“Tea? Coffee? Magazine?” Laura said. Look at me, I thought. “Ready?” Laura asked.
I could scarcely believe it when I found myself, five minutes later, sipping a cappuccino and perusing the latest edition of OK! magazine.
Her hand, warm and soft, brushed against the back of my neck as she took the hank and heft of my hair and twisted it into a rope behind me.
The slow noise of the scissors slicing through it was like the sound of embers shifting in a fire: tinkly, dangerous.
It was over in a moment. Laura held the hair aloft, a triumphant Delilah.
“I’ll cut it properly after the color’s done,” she said. “We just need a level playing field at this stage.”
Because I was sitting motionless, it didn’t feel any different.
She dropped the hair on the floor where it lay like a dead animal.
A skinny boy, who looked like he’d rather be doing almost anything else, was sweeping up very, very slowly,
and nudged my hair creature into his dustpan with a long-handled brush.
I watched his progress round the salon in the mirror. What happened to all the hair afterward?
The thought of a day’s or a week’s worth bundled into a bin bag,
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