At the hairdressers


 At the hairdressers


I sat in the chair my face directly reflected in the large mirror before me. I am forced to look. There is nowhere else to go.

-Here, I’ll take your bag. Upon which she placed my orange cloth bag on the chair on my right, visible but unreachable. Out of the way of the ubiquitous strands of hair that will eventually infiltrate it if it remains where I had dumped it on the floor beside me.

-How are you?

And I know that she genuinely cares. We have known each other for a long time

I answer with the obligatory ‘Fine’.

-And the dogs? How are they?  She places a black folded towel behind my neck followed by the ritual draping of the upper half of y body with the black material necessary to prevent hairs and dye from decorating my clothes. I’ll have to tell her.

-I had to put the old one down last week. I’m missing her. The young one is grieving. So am I.

There. It’s out.

-Oh, she says with prolonged sympathy and authenticity as shown in her whole face which I see reflected in the mirror. She feels what she is saying. She had met my dogs. ‘I’m so sorry. How old was she?’

Her hands move through my hair, moving it here and there, automatically gauging this and that as only a hairdresser can do. The feeling is quite pleasant and not at all invasive.

-Twelve and a half.

-What do you think? We have moved on. Thankfully. ‘Do we need to take a bit off here at the sides? It’s a bit boofy.’

-I think so. You’re the professional. I trust your opinion. I look down to where the latest women’s magazines are neatly stacked beneath the desk in front of me. Opening pages. She begins clipping at hair that she deems unnecessary to her design.

-That’s better. She clips from side to side pruning her work of art.

-

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