was already sprinkled with short hair clippings snipped from a previous client. I quickly brushed them off.
Laura arrived, looking just as glamorous as before, and led me toward a seat in front of a terrifying row of mirrors.
“Did you have a good time on Saturday?” she said, fussing around with a stool until she was seated behind me at the same height.
She didn’t look at me directly, but into the mirror, where she addressed my reflection; I found myself doing the same.
It was strangely relaxing. “I did,” I said. “It was a splendid evening.”
“Dad’s doing my nut in already, staying in the spare room,” she said, smiling, “and I’ve got another two weeks of it.
I don’t know how I’ll cope.” I nodded. “Parents can certainly be challenging, in my experience,” I said.
We exchanged a sympathetic glance. “Now then, what are we doing for you today?” she said,
unfastening the rubber band at the bottom of my braid and fanning it out.
I stared at my reflection. My hair was mousy brown, parted in the center, straight and not particularly thick.
Human hair, doing what human hair does: growing on my head. “Something different,” I said. “What would you suggest?”
“How brave are you prepared to be, Eleanor?” Laura asked. This was the correct question.
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