and puts on the diffuser. Then she sits on the bed and spends the next ten minutes or so with the dryer as far away from her hair as she can get it whilst still being able to do its job. Thank goodness she comes from a long-armed family! When she’s done she clips back her hair and glances in the mirror.
What she sees makes her scream. Twice. Then she runs her fingers carefully through the finished hairdo and screams again.
By this time, Kieran is in the bedroom alongside her, so she stops screaming. He isn’t a great fan of loud noises and tends to disappear for hours on end if he thinks there may be too many emotions swirling round in the vicinity.
“It’s my hair ,” she says, though it must be obvious even to a man. “Look at what Bernie has done to it!”
Both of them gaze in the mirror, and Olivia gulps. Kieran may have gulped too but she can’t be sure because she can only focus on the nightmare vision before them. Her hair looks as if it’s been pushed through a corkscrew-shaped hole and then blasted with sand. It hangs around her face in thin, tightly-curled strands and each time she moves, Olivia can hear it rustle. This is NOT the soft flattering curls she wants and which THAT WOMAN (she can’t bring herself to say the hairdresser’s name) promised her.
When she puts up her hand to feel the back of her hair, it’s even worse there – scrunchier and maybe even more lanky if she could see it properly. Maybe it’s best she can’t. What on earth is she going to do?
“I can’t get married like this,” she whispers. “It’s awful.”
Kieran puts his arm around her and gives her a hug. “But I love you the way you are. I want to marry you. You and your hair.”
His generosity brings tears to Olivia’s eyes. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry. Of course I want to get married. I love you too. But if I can’t get this sorted, I’ll have to wear a bag over my hair.”
“In that case, I’ll marry you, your hair and the bag, and it will be the best day in our lives ever, I promise you. But if you’re really that worried about it, why don’t you go and see another hairdresser? There are loads of them in town. Perhaps they can help you with it?”
Olivia is about to open her mouth to protest that no, her hair is utterly ruined beyond redemption and there is absolutely nothing she can do about it, when she realises that actually it’s quite a decent idea. So she gives Kieran a trembly smile and a kiss.
“You know, sometimes you’re a total genius.”
“Always.” he replies.
Olivia hopes this is true when, one week later, she opens the door of the poshest hair salon in town and makes her way uncertainly over the threshold. Her request for help will surely cost her a whole year’s salary if not two, and she and Kieran will have to live in a campervan for the rest of their lives, if they can afford one. But the sign on the outside of the salon caught her eye and drew her in:
Hair problems or disasters? Let us help you!
Okay, the sign was tiny compared to all the others around it, but Olivia felt it offered her a lifeline and she made her decision there and then.
Inside, Olivia can see four or five super-slim women, mainly blonde (her worst nightmare come true!), dealing with clients, and a couple of even younger girls sweeping up hair. The reception desk is empty and she’s just about to change her mind and make serious plans for getting married with a bag on her head when a dark-haired medium-build woman in her twenties pops up from behind the desk where she must have been hiding and gives her a bright smile.
“Good morning, madam! What can I do for you?”
Before Olivia can reply, the brunette steps out from around the desk, wide-eyed.
“You poor thing,” she says. “What on earth has happened to your hair?”
Olivia has the whole explanation rehearsed in her head concerning what she is going to say and how to make any potential hair saviour understand what may need to be done. It’s a
What she sees makes her scream. Twice. Then she runs her fingers carefully through the finished hairdo and screams again.
By this time, Kieran is in the bedroom alongside her, so she stops screaming. He isn’t a great fan of loud noises and tends to disappear for hours on end if he thinks there may be too many emotions swirling round in the vicinity.
“It’s my hair ,” she says, though it must be obvious even to a man. “Look at what Bernie has done to it!”
Both of them gaze in the mirror, and Olivia gulps. Kieran may have gulped too but she can’t be sure because she can only focus on the nightmare vision before them. Her hair looks as if it’s been pushed through a corkscrew-shaped hole and then blasted with sand. It hangs around her face in thin, tightly-curled strands and each time she moves, Olivia can hear it rustle. This is NOT the soft flattering curls she wants and which THAT WOMAN (she can’t bring herself to say the hairdresser’s name) promised her.
When she puts up her hand to feel the back of her hair, it’s even worse there – scrunchier and maybe even more lanky if she could see it properly. Maybe it’s best she can’t. What on earth is she going to do?
“I can’t get married like this,” she whispers. “It’s awful.”
Kieran puts his arm around her and gives her a hug. “But I love you the way you are. I want to marry you. You and your hair.”
His generosity brings tears to Olivia’s eyes. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry. Of course I want to get married. I love you too. But if I can’t get this sorted, I’ll have to wear a bag over my hair.”
“In that case, I’ll marry you, your hair and the bag, and it will be the best day in our lives ever, I promise you. But if you’re really that worried about it, why don’t you go and see another hairdresser? There are loads of them in town. Perhaps they can help you with it?”
Olivia is about to open her mouth to protest that no, her hair is utterly ruined beyond redemption and there is absolutely nothing she can do about it, when she realises that actually it’s quite a decent idea. So she gives Kieran a trembly smile and a kiss.
“You know, sometimes you’re a total genius.”
“Always.” he replies.
Olivia hopes this is true when, one week later, she opens the door of the poshest hair salon in town and makes her way uncertainly over the threshold. Her request for help will surely cost her a whole year’s salary if not two, and she and Kieran will have to live in a campervan for the rest of their lives, if they can afford one. But the sign on the outside of the salon caught her eye and drew her in:
Hair problems or disasters? Let us help you!
Okay, the sign was tiny compared to all the others around it, but Olivia felt it offered her a lifeline and she made her decision there and then.
Inside, Olivia can see four or five super-slim women, mainly blonde (her worst nightmare come true!), dealing with clients, and a couple of even younger girls sweeping up hair. The reception desk is empty and she’s just about to change her mind and make serious plans for getting married with a bag on her head when a dark-haired medium-build woman in her twenties pops up from behind the desk where she must have been hiding and gives her a bright smile.
“Good morning, madam! What can I do for you?”
Before Olivia can reply, the brunette steps out from around the desk, wide-eyed.
“You poor thing,” she says. “What on earth has happened to your hair?”
Olivia has the whole explanation rehearsed in her head concerning what she is going to say and how to make any potential hair saviour understand what may need to be done. It’s a
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