pub.
An hour later my stomach is satisfied. One juicy grilled chicken breast, a mountain of salad, a fluffy jacket potato, and that’s me sorted. For now. Nick settled for a chunky beef hotpot with doorsteps of locally baked soft white bread, and washes that down with half a pint of lager. I stick to the Diet Coke—not much of a daytime drinker myself. I’m considering the deep and meaningful question of whether I could have a pudding, and what there might be on the menu that wouldn’t overload my sugar levels when Nick solves that one for me.
“Ice cream. There’s a shop by the Priory that does a particularly wonderful strawberry ripple—they even have some sugar-free ones. How does that sound?”
It sounds absolutely fucking marvelous, and my beaming smile is clearly enough to convey that sentiment. A few minutes later we’re heading back through the quaint old market square. We pass a small hair salon, sporting the somewhat improbable title of TheCutting Edge across its frontage. I have to step into the road as the door opens and one particularly happy customer strides out. I can’t help noticing her hair, and have to grant her that it’s been money well spent. Her flowing locks are glossy, the layers sleek and lively, the whole lot tumbling and rippling across her shoulders. I reach up and tug at my own dark brown wavy mane, and wonder—not for the first time—if I really ought to get something done about it. I’m still standing there, peering in through the small front window of the salon, when Nick ambles back along the pavement having just noticed that I’m missing.
“Hey, I thought I’d lost you. What’s the hold-up?”
“I’m thinking I should get my hair cut.” I sign the words. He looks baffled, starts to ask me to repeat it before he notices where I am and what I’m looking at. Then the random remark makes sense.
“Ah, right. Now?”
“No, not now. I don’t have an appointment. But soon.”
He lifts his hand, gently fingers my hair. “Not short? Please.”
“No, not short. Probably. Just…nice. And bouncy. Like hers.” I tilt my head in the direction of my rapidly disappearing inspiration. “And maybe some highlights. I wonder if they do nails too.” I’m peering in the window again, craning my neck to see what delights they might have to offer inside.
“Come on then, let’s ask.” He takes my hand and makes to go inside with me. I pull my hand back sharply, shaking my head. He looks at me, puzzled. “What’s the problem? I’ll help you make an appointment. You can hardly ring them up, can you?”
Well, that’s true, and a few seconds later we’re inside the small salon and Nick is towering over the petite little dark-haired receptionist-cum-sweeper-upper.
“My friend wants a haircut. When can you fit her in?” He leans on the counter, turns on his most dazzling smile, and Miss Multitasker jumps to it.
“What is it you want? Just a cut and blow?”
I turn to Nick, signing rapidly. “Tell her I want highlights too. And ask her if they do nails.”
“Got it.” He turns his attention back to the receptionist, passes on my requirements. She looks at the pair of us in bemused astonishment then gathers her wits and starts thumbing through the huge desk diary that serves as an appointment book in these pre-digital establishments. Despite the name blazoned over the door, Cartmel’s not exactly at the cutting edge of technology, though I suspect someone in here knows their way around a pair of scissors if that previous customer is anything to go by.
“For highlights you’ll need at least a couple of hours. Carol can do it, but she’s booked solid until…” She turns the pages, her sad expression indicating that I’m not getting my hair done any time soon.
“Didn’t Sophie cancel?” The voice comes from the rear of the shop, where a small, middle-aged woman is merrily applying hair dye to a customer’s head with a paintbrush. “You could have her slot,
An hour later my stomach is satisfied. One juicy grilled chicken breast, a mountain of salad, a fluffy jacket potato, and that’s me sorted. For now. Nick settled for a chunky beef hotpot with doorsteps of locally baked soft white bread, and washes that down with half a pint of lager. I stick to the Diet Coke—not much of a daytime drinker myself. I’m considering the deep and meaningful question of whether I could have a pudding, and what there might be on the menu that wouldn’t overload my sugar levels when Nick solves that one for me.
“Ice cream. There’s a shop by the Priory that does a particularly wonderful strawberry ripple—they even have some sugar-free ones. How does that sound?”
It sounds absolutely fucking marvelous, and my beaming smile is clearly enough to convey that sentiment. A few minutes later we’re heading back through the quaint old market square. We pass a small hair salon, sporting the somewhat improbable title of TheCutting Edge across its frontage. I have to step into the road as the door opens and one particularly happy customer strides out. I can’t help noticing her hair, and have to grant her that it’s been money well spent. Her flowing locks are glossy, the layers sleek and lively, the whole lot tumbling and rippling across her shoulders. I reach up and tug at my own dark brown wavy mane, and wonder—not for the first time—if I really ought to get something done about it. I’m still standing there, peering in through the small front window of the salon, when Nick ambles back along the pavement having just noticed that I’m missing.
“Hey, I thought I’d lost you. What’s the hold-up?”
“I’m thinking I should get my hair cut.” I sign the words. He looks baffled, starts to ask me to repeat it before he notices where I am and what I’m looking at. Then the random remark makes sense.
“Ah, right. Now?”
“No, not now. I don’t have an appointment. But soon.”
He lifts his hand, gently fingers my hair. “Not short? Please.”
“No, not short. Probably. Just…nice. And bouncy. Like hers.” I tilt my head in the direction of my rapidly disappearing inspiration. “And maybe some highlights. I wonder if they do nails too.” I’m peering in the window again, craning my neck to see what delights they might have to offer inside.
“Come on then, let’s ask.” He takes my hand and makes to go inside with me. I pull my hand back sharply, shaking my head. He looks at me, puzzled. “What’s the problem? I’ll help you make an appointment. You can hardly ring them up, can you?”
Well, that’s true, and a few seconds later we’re inside the small salon and Nick is towering over the petite little dark-haired receptionist-cum-sweeper-upper.
“My friend wants a haircut. When can you fit her in?” He leans on the counter, turns on his most dazzling smile, and Miss Multitasker jumps to it.
“What is it you want? Just a cut and blow?”
I turn to Nick, signing rapidly. “Tell her I want highlights too. And ask her if they do nails.”
“Got it.” He turns his attention back to the receptionist, passes on my requirements. She looks at the pair of us in bemused astonishment then gathers her wits and starts thumbing through the huge desk diary that serves as an appointment book in these pre-digital establishments. Despite the name blazoned over the door, Cartmel’s not exactly at the cutting edge of technology, though I suspect someone in here knows their way around a pair of scissors if that previous customer is anything to go by.
“For highlights you’ll need at least a couple of hours. Carol can do it, but she’s booked solid until…” She turns the pages, her sad expression indicating that I’m not getting my hair done any time soon.
“Didn’t Sophie cancel?” The voice comes from the rear of the shop, where a small, middle-aged woman is merrily applying hair dye to a customer’s head with a paintbrush. “You could have her slot,
Similar Books
