“Somebody’s hoping to get herself a bit of action, if I’m not mistaken?” The women gathered round.
I was wearing my new outfit too. “You look lovely, Eleanor!” “Black really suits you.”
“I love those boots, where did you get them?” I examined their faces, looking out for sly glances, waiting for a punch line.
None was forthcoming. “Where did you get your hair done, by the way?” Janey said. “It’s a very flattering cut.”
“Heliotrope, in town,” I said. “Laura did it. She’s a friend of mine,” I said proudly.
Janey looked impressed. “I might try them out,” she said.
My hairdresser is moving up north, so I’m looking for someone new. Does your friend do wedding hair, d’you know?
I rummaged in my shopper. “Here’s her card,” I said, “why not give her a call?” Janey beamed at me.
Could this be right? I smiled back quickly—if in doubt, smile, remember—and made for my desk.
Was this how it worked, then, successful social integration? Was it really that simple?
Wear some lipstick, go to the hairdressers and alternate the clothes you wear?
Someone ought to write a book, or at least an explanatory pamphlet, and pass this information on.
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