could finish off—”
“Sorry,” said the owner without looking back at me. “Can’t have Tanya cutting hair out in the street. Our insurance won’t cover it.”
“What insurance? It’s
a haircut
. Nothing can happen to . . . well, bombs aside, obviously—nothing can happen to you getting a haircut.”
“And suppose Tanya took your ear off?”
“Is that
likely
?”
“Who knows? She could just be tidying up when the bomb explodes . . . gets hit by the blast wave and . . .” Still without turning round she touched her hand to one of her ears and then flung it away to illustrate a pinna being severed by scissors.
“I’ll sign a waiver.”
“Pfft,” spat the owner. “I’ve heard
that
one before.”
“Well . . . er . . . argh . . . Okay! Yes, okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll run to the nearest shop and get a pair of scissors and a couple of mirrors, right? I’ll set up the mirrors, and
I’ll
cut my hair—following your instructions. You can talk me down. Yes? Eh?
Yes?
”
The owner and Tanya just looked at each other and shook their heads. Like I was some kind of fool or something. They weren’t going to budge.
Shit and bee stings—what was I going to do now? I glanced at my watch. Crap. My mind howled as I tried to think of another hairdresser that was close. Where? Where?
Where?
Ha!
There
. It was a good distance, on foot, but I might be able to make it
just
in time for them to salvage my head and get to George’s hotel on time if I really, really ran as fast as I could.
I clawed my way through the small crowd of people who were standing there waiting to see whether they’d be able to return to work or at least get the chance to see it explode. The second I was beyond them I put all my hopes into my legs and sent them haring off across Edinburgh. Bloody
Edinburgh
—why couldn’t they have built the place somewhere flatter? In fact, it’s not just that it’s not flat but that everywhere you go in Edinburgh—there, and back—appears to be uphill; I think the city must have been designed by Escher. I pounded along the pavement, jigging and weaving in between pedestrians who seemed to be going to supererogatory lengths to GET IN MY DAMN WAY.
After about five minutes and what I judged to be between four to six breaths away from the point when I was actually going to cough up my lungs, I collapsed against the door of what I knew was, as far as I was concerned, the Last Chance Salon. I staggered in and half flopped over onto the counter. The startled receptionist stared at me with an expression that said, “Okay, okay, take what’s in the till, just don’t hurt me.”
“Need . . . haircut . . . now . . . desperate . . .”
The receptionist bit her lip.
“I’m afraid we’re fully booked. I could fit you in, um . . . Friday afternoon?”
I looked at her with eyes that would break your heart and animatedly jabbed a finger at my head.
“. . . desperate.”
The door to a small office was open behind her. Turning slightly, so as to face a little more in that direction but not allowing her eyes to leave me for a moment, she called out towards it.
“Mrs. Connelly? Mrs. Connelly? There’s a gentleman here who says he needs a haircut.”
“Des . . .”
“Desperately. He says he needs a haircut . . .”
“Des . . .”
“Desperately.”
A faceless voice called back from the office.
“We can’t fit him in today. Tell him to make an appointment.”
I held out my hands to the receptionist, imploringly.
“He seems to want one
right now,
Mrs. Connelly.”
“Right now?” the voice replied, with an edge of irritation.
“Aye, Mrs. Connelly.
Right now
. I mean . . . he’s even come in wearing his own apron.”
Ah, yes—I’d forgotten about that. Oh well.
There was a pause, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, and then a woman wearing more makeup than an entire Parisian chorus line appeared in the doorway. She saw me, took a step back into the office,
“Sorry,” said the owner without looking back at me. “Can’t have Tanya cutting hair out in the street. Our insurance won’t cover it.”
“What insurance? It’s
a haircut
. Nothing can happen to . . . well, bombs aside, obviously—nothing can happen to you getting a haircut.”
“And suppose Tanya took your ear off?”
“Is that
likely
?”
“Who knows? She could just be tidying up when the bomb explodes . . . gets hit by the blast wave and . . .” Still without turning round she touched her hand to one of her ears and then flung it away to illustrate a pinna being severed by scissors.
“I’ll sign a waiver.”
“Pfft,” spat the owner. “I’ve heard
that
one before.”
“Well . . . er . . . argh . . . Okay! Yes, okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll run to the nearest shop and get a pair of scissors and a couple of mirrors, right? I’ll set up the mirrors, and
I’ll
cut my hair—following your instructions. You can talk me down. Yes? Eh?
Yes?
”
The owner and Tanya just looked at each other and shook their heads. Like I was some kind of fool or something. They weren’t going to budge.
Shit and bee stings—what was I going to do now? I glanced at my watch. Crap. My mind howled as I tried to think of another hairdresser that was close. Where? Where?
Where?
Ha!
There
. It was a good distance, on foot, but I might be able to make it
just
in time for them to salvage my head and get to George’s hotel on time if I really, really ran as fast as I could.
I clawed my way through the small crowd of people who were standing there waiting to see whether they’d be able to return to work or at least get the chance to see it explode. The second I was beyond them I put all my hopes into my legs and sent them haring off across Edinburgh. Bloody
Edinburgh
—why couldn’t they have built the place somewhere flatter? In fact, it’s not just that it’s not flat but that everywhere you go in Edinburgh—there, and back—appears to be uphill; I think the city must have been designed by Escher. I pounded along the pavement, jigging and weaving in between pedestrians who seemed to be going to supererogatory lengths to GET IN MY DAMN WAY.
After about five minutes and what I judged to be between four to six breaths away from the point when I was actually going to cough up my lungs, I collapsed against the door of what I knew was, as far as I was concerned, the Last Chance Salon. I staggered in and half flopped over onto the counter. The startled receptionist stared at me with an expression that said, “Okay, okay, take what’s in the till, just don’t hurt me.”
“Need . . . haircut . . . now . . . desperate . . .”
The receptionist bit her lip.
“I’m afraid we’re fully booked. I could fit you in, um . . . Friday afternoon?”
I looked at her with eyes that would break your heart and animatedly jabbed a finger at my head.
“. . . desperate.”
The door to a small office was open behind her. Turning slightly, so as to face a little more in that direction but not allowing her eyes to leave me for a moment, she called out towards it.
“Mrs. Connelly? Mrs. Connelly? There’s a gentleman here who says he needs a haircut.”
“Des . . .”
“Desperately. He says he needs a haircut . . .”
“Des . . .”
“Desperately.”
A faceless voice called back from the office.
“We can’t fit him in today. Tell him to make an appointment.”
I held out my hands to the receptionist, imploringly.
“He seems to want one
right now,
Mrs. Connelly.”
“Right now?” the voice replied, with an edge of irritation.
“Aye, Mrs. Connelly.
Right now
. I mean . . . he’s even come in wearing his own apron.”
Ah, yes—I’d forgotten about that. Oh well.
There was a pause, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, and then a woman wearing more makeup than an entire Parisian chorus line appeared in the doorway. She saw me, took a step back into the office,
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