the smell of it and the soft, marshmallowy pillowing of it inside, made me feel slightly queasy.
Laura approached wheeling a trolley, then proceeded to daub various thick pastes onto selected strands of my hair, alternating between bowls.
After each section of gunk was applied, she folded the painted hair into squares of tinfoil. It was a fascinating procedure.
After thirty minutes, she left me sitting with a foil head and a red face, then returned pushing a hot lamp on a stand, which she placed behind me.
“Twenty minutes and you’ll be done,” she said. She brought me more magazines, but the pleasure had waned—
I had quickly tired of celebrity gossip, and it seemed that the salon didn’t take Which? or BBC History, much to my disappointment.
A thought kept nudging me, and I ignored it. Me, brushing someone else’s hair? Yes.
Someone smaller than me, sitting on a chair while I stood behind and combed out the tangles, trying my best to be gentle.
She hated the snags and tugs. Thoughts of this type—vague, mysterious, unsettling—were precisely the sort that vodka was good for obliterating,
but unfortunately I’d only been offered a choice of tea or coffee.
I wondered why hair salons didn’t provide anything stronger.
A change of style can be stressful, after all, and it’s hard to relax in such a noisy, bright environment.
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