Just Like the Other Girls(56)

I take a strand of pink between my fingers. ‘I’m getting bored of the colour. Can I change it to blue?’

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Sure, but I’m going to have to bleach it first.’ She scoops up a handful of my hair. ‘It’s not great for the condition. Can I suggest you go back to your natural colour, then come in a few months to put in the blue?’

I wanted the blue to piss off stuck-up Kathryn. But maybe it’s not a bad idea. Especially as I’m new to the job. Perhaps I’ll impress the old lady, make her think I’m serious about the role. So I agree.

She runs her hands through my hair. ‘Your last hairdresser overdid it a little on the pink,’ she says, frowning.

I laugh. There’s something straight to the point about this girl that’s refreshing. ‘Yep. It was one of my friends. She didn’t really know what she was doing.’

A smile tugs at the edges of her lips. ‘I can see that. Do you want any cut?’

Cut? I haven’t had my hair cut in seven years. ‘No, thanks. I like it this length.’

She looks doubtful and meets my eyes in the large rectangular mirror in front of me. ‘I could take the ends off? Make it healthier?’

Not on your life. After the last hairdresser promised to ‘take the ends off’ I finished up with it on my shoulders. I’m not making that mistake again.

I decline politely and she shrugs. ‘Okay, I’ll just go and mix the colour.’ She wanders away without offering me a drink. Another girl, who looks about fifteen with a very severe bleached buzz cut, wafts over to me in a cloud of Impulse and dumps a couple of glossy magazines in my lap without a word. Charming.

Five minutes later the stylist is back, wheeling a tray containing bowls of bleach and colour and a pile of foils. She starts sectioning my hair, then catches my eye in the mirror. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t offer you a drink.’

I smile. ‘That’s okay.’

‘Do you want one?’

I contemplate saying no as I don’t want her to go to any trouble, plus she looks a bit stressed, but I’m actually really thirsty so I admit I’d love a cup of tea.

She calls to the fifteen-year-old, who scurries off to make it.

‘So why did you want the blue?’ she asks, as she brushes bleach onto my pink strands. The girl is back with my tea.

‘I’ve just started a new job,’ I say, reaching for my cup.

She laughs. It’s throaty and I’m relieved she’s thawed a little. ‘And your employer wants you to have blue hair?’

I sip my tea and place it on the table in front of me, all without moving my body. ‘No, the old woman I work for is okay. She’s cool about it. It’s her daughter who’s all judgy. She hates the pink.’ I tell her about the dental-floss jibe. ‘So I thought I’d make it blue instead! Even more vibrant. Anything to piss her off. But now it will have to wait. Still,’ I chuckle to show I’m joking, ‘I’ll have to find other ways to piss her off!’

I’m expecting her to laugh. At least to raise a smile. But she just nods and asks me where I’m from, as though she’s following a script and isn’t allowed to deviate from it. I tell her a bit about Norfolk and my restlessness, leaving uni and how I’m still trying to find the right career for me.

‘What about travelling? Would you like to do that?’

‘I did it for a bit but I need stability, really. A proper career. I have to start making money.’

She nods. She doesn’t say much about herself, just fires questions at me in her endearing West Country accent, that tilts up at the end so it’s like she’s asking questions even when she’s not. All the while she concertinas the foils and presses them to my head. I get the sense she isn’t really listening. I’d rather read my magazine, to be honest, but I don’t want to be rude.

After she’s finished she leaves me, saying she’ll be back in twenty minutes to take the foils off. I watch her in the mirror as she wheels the trolley away. There is something sorrowful about her under the haughty exterior, like she’s putting on a front. It’s like she’s being weighed down by invisible armour. She stares into the distance as she blow-dries a woman’s hair at the other end of the salon. She’s just going through the motions. She’s tall and very striking, with her long copper hair and porcelain skin. I watch her for a bit longer, trying to fathom her out. I do this a lot. Arlo says I’m nosy, but I sometimes wonder if I should go into psychology. I love to know what makes people tick.

I return to my magazine, glad of the peace. My jaw hurts from yabbering away. My tea has gone cold but nobody asks me if I’d like another cup.

After a while the copper-haired stylist is back. She checks one of the foils and seems satisfied, then sends me off with the fifteen-year-old to have my hair washed.

When I’m back in the chair the stylist combs out my hair. The colour is lovely, a soft ash blonde. I look more normal and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Maybe I’ll be taken more seriously but, even so, I refuse to lose the nose ring.

She’s drying my hair with a large brush, and it’s not until she’s finished that she looks at me properly. I’m busy assessing myself in the mirror and don’t really notice the horror on her face until she speaks. I glance up and our eyes meet in the mirror. She’s deathly white and I know it’s a cliché but there’s no other way to describe it. She’s staring at me like she’s seen a ghost.