vans and the speeding, Lycra-clad couriers on bicycles. Caught midstream, Poppy was oblivious to the abuse mouthed at her from road users, urging her to ‘get out of the bloody road!’
She stood at the halfway mark, having forgotten all about her customer and the fact that she had a shampoo and set to finish, when the phone on the reception desk rang. It became a focus for Poppy above the groan of the traffic. Christine answered it in her usual fake telephone voice. She had an irritating way of going up at the end and over-pronouncing the letter ‘s’, her voice an octave higher than usual.
She sounded to the uninitiated like little Miss Sunshine, permanently happy and sweet, but this was a false impression. The reality was that she was miserable and miserly. Christine would rather be counting the takings with a fag clamped between her lips while the dirty smoke swirled up into her hair, giving her fringe a permanent tinge of yellow. Her face would twist as she spoke through a mouth full of cigarette, the side opened slightly to allow the words to escape; her teeth were brown and crowded, with smoke swirling around in there too.
She had no children, which Poppy thought was a blessing. She would have been as crap as her own mother, if not worse, and that’s saying something. She was fond of telling Poppy, ‘You’re the daughter I never ’ad,’ and Poppy would think, thank Christ for that. The main difference between her mum and her boss was that Cheryl was as ingenuous as Christine was divisive . If Poppy had to choose between the two… They would both get nil points, a draw. In Eurovision terms they would be Luxembourg and Latvia.
Poppy stuck with it for one simple reason, it suited her. The salon was situated on the ground floor of the flats where she lived, making her commute non-existent. She was two roads away from where her beloved nan now resided and she used to be a short stroll away from the garage where Martin worked, until he made other decisions about his career.
Poppy’s whole world was within five minutes of where she woke each morning – fabulous. What’s the expression; the best-laid plans of mice and men?
Christine dropped fag ash all over the appointment book. On the wrong side of sixty, she dressed as though she still had the pert body that she was gifted with as a teenager; one of those women who had the makings of pretty if circumstances had been a little kinder, with a little less grime, a little more class, a little less poverty and a lot more fruit and veg (preferably organic).
Christine had a face and a voice that she used for customers, a different one for her staff and a COMPLETELY different set of faces and voices that she used when talking to a man, any man. Whether the male in question was sixteen or eighty-six, she spoke to them as though they were prey. Poppy had, over the years, watched burly East End builders, who came to pick up their wives from the salon, cower like baby girls as Christine made her move.
She carried with her an ingrained whiff of body odour that no matter how many showers she took or how much she scrubbed and sprayed, wouldn’t shift. It was the kind of smell you sometimes experienced at the end of the day, having worn man-made fibres while you laboured away. She disguised the grim odour with a liberal application of sweet scent, which did nothing to help, only adding to the heady cocktail.
‘Snipz Unisex Salon, Christine the proprietor speaking. How may I help you?’
It made Poppy cringe every time she heard the phone answered in that manner. She cringed without fail even though she knew what was coming. Christine answered the phone up to ten times a day. Having worked at Snipz for six years, an average of three hundred and thirteen days a year, meant Poppy had endured a little fewer than nineteen thousand cringes to date.
‘Poppyissforyou!’ she bellowed, her volume cutting across the road noise, confident the voice on the end of the line was
She stood at the halfway mark, having forgotten all about her customer and the fact that she had a shampoo and set to finish, when the phone on the reception desk rang. It became a focus for Poppy above the groan of the traffic. Christine answered it in her usual fake telephone voice. She had an irritating way of going up at the end and over-pronouncing the letter ‘s’, her voice an octave higher than usual.
She sounded to the uninitiated like little Miss Sunshine, permanently happy and sweet, but this was a false impression. The reality was that she was miserable and miserly. Christine would rather be counting the takings with a fag clamped between her lips while the dirty smoke swirled up into her hair, giving her fringe a permanent tinge of yellow. Her face would twist as she spoke through a mouth full of cigarette, the side opened slightly to allow the words to escape; her teeth were brown and crowded, with smoke swirling around in there too.
She had no children, which Poppy thought was a blessing. She would have been as crap as her own mother, if not worse, and that’s saying something. She was fond of telling Poppy, ‘You’re the daughter I never ’ad,’ and Poppy would think, thank Christ for that. The main difference between her mum and her boss was that Cheryl was as ingenuous as Christine was divisive . If Poppy had to choose between the two… They would both get nil points, a draw. In Eurovision terms they would be Luxembourg and Latvia.
Poppy stuck with it for one simple reason, it suited her. The salon was situated on the ground floor of the flats where she lived, making her commute non-existent. She was two roads away from where her beloved nan now resided and she used to be a short stroll away from the garage where Martin worked, until he made other decisions about his career.
Poppy’s whole world was within five minutes of where she woke each morning – fabulous. What’s the expression; the best-laid plans of mice and men?
Christine dropped fag ash all over the appointment book. On the wrong side of sixty, she dressed as though she still had the pert body that she was gifted with as a teenager; one of those women who had the makings of pretty if circumstances had been a little kinder, with a little less grime, a little more class, a little less poverty and a lot more fruit and veg (preferably organic).
Christine had a face and a voice that she used for customers, a different one for her staff and a COMPLETELY different set of faces and voices that she used when talking to a man, any man. Whether the male in question was sixteen or eighty-six, she spoke to them as though they were prey. Poppy had, over the years, watched burly East End builders, who came to pick up their wives from the salon, cower like baby girls as Christine made her move.
She carried with her an ingrained whiff of body odour that no matter how many showers she took or how much she scrubbed and sprayed, wouldn’t shift. It was the kind of smell you sometimes experienced at the end of the day, having worn man-made fibres while you laboured away. She disguised the grim odour with a liberal application of sweet scent, which did nothing to help, only adding to the heady cocktail.
‘Snipz Unisex Salon, Christine the proprietor speaking. How may I help you?’
It made Poppy cringe every time she heard the phone answered in that manner. She cringed without fail even though she knew what was coming. Christine answered the phone up to ten times a day. Having worked at Snipz for six years, an average of three hundred and thirteen days a year, meant Poppy had endured a little fewer than nineteen thousand cringes to date.
‘Poppyissforyou!’ she bellowed, her volume cutting across the road noise, confident the voice on the end of the line was
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