standard colours are butter, baby, champagne, flax, vanilla, platinum, canary diamond, honey, clotted cream. I never do ash. And that’s just for base block. If you say chardonnay, I’ll ask oaked? If you say honey, I’ll ask New Zealand, Clover or Manuka? Capiche ?’
There was a long silence as Cassie tried to visualize the different tones. She dropped her face into her hands.
‘Oh God. And I asked for yellow,’ she cringed. She peered at him through her fingers. ‘I’m your worst nightmare, aren’t I?’
He stared at her, assessing her intently.
‘Actually,’ he said, brightening up and spinning her chair back to face the mirror. ‘You’re my dream come true. It’s women like you who allow me to show everyone exactly what I can do. He picked up her hair in his hands and this time let it fall like water through his fingers. ‘And I know exactly what to do with you!’
Four hours later, she was lying on her back – knees out, feet together – like a woman having a smear test. ‘Except this is so much worse. Much, much worse,’ she thought as she struggled to keep the little scrap of tissue paper in place.
Kelly was in the next cubicle. Not room, cubicle. It had been like walking into a World War Two field hospital when they’d got to the top of the stairs and rounded the corner. Line upon line of six-foot cloth screens separated one client from the next, sparing them the indignity of watching each other being plucked and waxed, but not sparing them the sound. Some women weren’t entirely successful at stifling the small yelp that burst out when the hot wax was ripped off – unlike Kelly, who was no doubt still texting – and Cassie was getting more tense by the second.
‘So what did she say when you told her you just kept applying over the old coats?’ Kelly asked from the other side of the screen.
‘She nearly threw up,’ Cassie mumbled. ‘I felt like I’d just told her I eat babies or something.’
Kelly burst out laughing, interrupting the sound of ripping and yelping coming from the rest of the room.
‘Then, when she got the colour off, she said my nails looked like rhino horn.’
Kelly laughed even harder. ‘Well, if you’re not going to use base coat . . .’ she managed, before descending into another fit of the giggles. ‘Anyway, they look great now. She does the best French polish in the city. That’s why she’s so in demand.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t be surprised if she suddenly moves to LA on the grounds of ill-health, that’s all I’m saying.’
The woman who’d ordered her to strip came back into cubicle. ‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here,’ she murmured, whipping away the strategically placed scrap of tissue paper and leaving Cassie with even less dignity than the pedicurist had. ‘Hmmm, I’ll need to trim,’ she said, turning for the scissors.
Trim? She’d already lost half the hair on her head today. She must have lost two pounds already.
‘Here, have a look at this whilst I get you prepped.’ Prepped? Oh God. She actually was going to go into theatre – on painkillers!
The woman handed Cassie a laminated card printed with various different shapes. Cassie squinted at it. What was it – a sight test? Plane safety card? Tattoos? Shape recognition for toddlers? She turned it over. It was blank on the other side. ‘You mean you want me to choose one?’
‘Uh-huh,’ the woman muttered as she clipped away.
Cassie studied the card furiously, trying to distract herself from the fact that this stranger – this nameless Brazilian woman – now knew her more intimately than any other person on earth – former husband included. He’d never been particularly up for going down there.
Hearts, oblongs, rhomboids, stripes, stars, leaves swam before her eyes. Was that a dollar sign? For the second time today, she was faced with making a decision about something she’d never considered in her life before but which now required an instant opinion
There was a long silence as Cassie tried to visualize the different tones. She dropped her face into her hands.
‘Oh God. And I asked for yellow,’ she cringed. She peered at him through her fingers. ‘I’m your worst nightmare, aren’t I?’
He stared at her, assessing her intently.
‘Actually,’ he said, brightening up and spinning her chair back to face the mirror. ‘You’re my dream come true. It’s women like you who allow me to show everyone exactly what I can do. He picked up her hair in his hands and this time let it fall like water through his fingers. ‘And I know exactly what to do with you!’
Four hours later, she was lying on her back – knees out, feet together – like a woman having a smear test. ‘Except this is so much worse. Much, much worse,’ she thought as she struggled to keep the little scrap of tissue paper in place.
Kelly was in the next cubicle. Not room, cubicle. It had been like walking into a World War Two field hospital when they’d got to the top of the stairs and rounded the corner. Line upon line of six-foot cloth screens separated one client from the next, sparing them the indignity of watching each other being plucked and waxed, but not sparing them the sound. Some women weren’t entirely successful at stifling the small yelp that burst out when the hot wax was ripped off – unlike Kelly, who was no doubt still texting – and Cassie was getting more tense by the second.
‘So what did she say when you told her you just kept applying over the old coats?’ Kelly asked from the other side of the screen.
‘She nearly threw up,’ Cassie mumbled. ‘I felt like I’d just told her I eat babies or something.’
Kelly burst out laughing, interrupting the sound of ripping and yelping coming from the rest of the room.
‘Then, when she got the colour off, she said my nails looked like rhino horn.’
Kelly laughed even harder. ‘Well, if you’re not going to use base coat . . .’ she managed, before descending into another fit of the giggles. ‘Anyway, they look great now. She does the best French polish in the city. That’s why she’s so in demand.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t be surprised if she suddenly moves to LA on the grounds of ill-health, that’s all I’m saying.’
The woman who’d ordered her to strip came back into cubicle. ‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here,’ she murmured, whipping away the strategically placed scrap of tissue paper and leaving Cassie with even less dignity than the pedicurist had. ‘Hmmm, I’ll need to trim,’ she said, turning for the scissors.
Trim? She’d already lost half the hair on her head today. She must have lost two pounds already.
‘Here, have a look at this whilst I get you prepped.’ Prepped? Oh God. She actually was going to go into theatre – on painkillers!
The woman handed Cassie a laminated card printed with various different shapes. Cassie squinted at it. What was it – a sight test? Plane safety card? Tattoos? Shape recognition for toddlers? She turned it over. It was blank on the other side. ‘You mean you want me to choose one?’
‘Uh-huh,’ the woman muttered as she clipped away.
Cassie studied the card furiously, trying to distract herself from the fact that this stranger – this nameless Brazilian woman – now knew her more intimately than any other person on earth – former husband included. He’d never been particularly up for going down there.
Hearts, oblongs, rhomboids, stripes, stars, leaves swam before her eyes. Was that a dollar sign? For the second time today, she was faced with making a decision about something she’d never considered in her life before but which now required an instant opinion
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