unit, had prepared her invoice for not one but two persons, It was scarcely news to anyone that although the Blue Mistress had leased Flat Number 8 by herself stating she would live alone, a sour-faced, olive oil merchant old enough to be her father lived with her at least four days a week. Cemal knew all this and was dying to find out more.
Turning over his highlighting brush to the pimpled apprentice, as he veered toward the door with a stuck-up smile on his face, he took a full-length shot of the unexpected visitor. You could hardly say that her body was great; though not quite a pear, it was still pear-like. She was wearing a long gauzy dress with straps that covered up too much for a mistress. However, under the sunlight trickling through the glass door, her legs were entirely visible as she had not worn anunderskirt. It looked as if she simultaneously wanted to hide and expose her body; or perhaps she was just confused…and her face… her face was the most interesting part. Some people’s faces are like magnets covered with skin. All the ins and outs, ups and downs, core and gist of their personality reside there. They think with their faces; converse, promenade, quarrel, get hungry, feel happy, love or make love with their faces. Their bodies are necessary, albeit unimpressive pedestals, merely added on to carry their faces. Such people are essentially walking faces. Accordingly, they can never hide their feelings away. Whatever they feel gets reflected, totally and immediately, upon their faces. The petite, pale face of the Blue Mistress, adorned with an azure
hizma
, screamed out that, right at that moment, she was trying hard not to show her distress. Cemal took a step toward her and though this was not at all his habit, shook hands with the Blue Mistress, flagrantly violating women’s hairdressers’ custom of greeting customers. Like all repressed homosexuals who generally got along well with the delicate sex but also somewhat sneered at them, he too was particularly interested in those women who are partly envied, partly hated by other women.
Trying to ignore the inquisitive, impish stares directed at her from different angles of the beauty parlour, the Blue Mistress moved with brisk, uncertain steps toward the swivel chair Cemal pointed out to her. As she took her place in front of the long, wide mirror with other women, the looks directed at her folded into one another and multiplied. The blonde with a slight cast in her eye, the jittery chain-smoking brunette who kept shaking her pedicured toes with cotton pieces stuck in between each one, the short and plump gingerhead sitting with two thick carroty lines on top of her eyes having her eyebrows coloured along with her hair, and finally the elf-like elderly lady at the very corner; all stared at her as if waiting to be introduced.
The pimpled apprentice tied the leopard-patterned, plastic smock with dubious stains onto the neck of the Blue Mistress,careful to touch her as little as possible. It was an agonizing misfortune for the apprentice to have to work at a beauty parlour at this sensitive stage of his life, hearing all sorts of obscene jokes from women about the way his face divulged the sins his hand must be committing at nights. As the teenage boy backed off with unsteady steps, he did not notice the cat that had without a sound snuck in through the open window. All eyes were turned toward the animal when it let out a mighty ‘meow’ upon having its tail trampled.
It was a thick-coated, grim-faced, strapping cat as black as tar: one of those that looked upon every human they saw with narrowed eyes as if there had been a bloody fight between cats and humans from time immemorial. Still, as the round strand of hair starting from the sides of its nose down under its chin looked as if someone had dipped it in a bowl of yogurt, it had a cute side in spite of everything.
‘Come, Garbage! Come here, you nuisance!’ Cemal called out when he realized
Turning over his highlighting brush to the pimpled apprentice, as he veered toward the door with a stuck-up smile on his face, he took a full-length shot of the unexpected visitor. You could hardly say that her body was great; though not quite a pear, it was still pear-like. She was wearing a long gauzy dress with straps that covered up too much for a mistress. However, under the sunlight trickling through the glass door, her legs were entirely visible as she had not worn anunderskirt. It looked as if she simultaneously wanted to hide and expose her body; or perhaps she was just confused…and her face… her face was the most interesting part. Some people’s faces are like magnets covered with skin. All the ins and outs, ups and downs, core and gist of their personality reside there. They think with their faces; converse, promenade, quarrel, get hungry, feel happy, love or make love with their faces. Their bodies are necessary, albeit unimpressive pedestals, merely added on to carry their faces. Such people are essentially walking faces. Accordingly, they can never hide their feelings away. Whatever they feel gets reflected, totally and immediately, upon their faces. The petite, pale face of the Blue Mistress, adorned with an azure
hizma
, screamed out that, right at that moment, she was trying hard not to show her distress. Cemal took a step toward her and though this was not at all his habit, shook hands with the Blue Mistress, flagrantly violating women’s hairdressers’ custom of greeting customers. Like all repressed homosexuals who generally got along well with the delicate sex but also somewhat sneered at them, he too was particularly interested in those women who are partly envied, partly hated by other women.
Trying to ignore the inquisitive, impish stares directed at her from different angles of the beauty parlour, the Blue Mistress moved with brisk, uncertain steps toward the swivel chair Cemal pointed out to her. As she took her place in front of the long, wide mirror with other women, the looks directed at her folded into one another and multiplied. The blonde with a slight cast in her eye, the jittery chain-smoking brunette who kept shaking her pedicured toes with cotton pieces stuck in between each one, the short and plump gingerhead sitting with two thick carroty lines on top of her eyes having her eyebrows coloured along with her hair, and finally the elf-like elderly lady at the very corner; all stared at her as if waiting to be introduced.
The pimpled apprentice tied the leopard-patterned, plastic smock with dubious stains onto the neck of the Blue Mistress,careful to touch her as little as possible. It was an agonizing misfortune for the apprentice to have to work at a beauty parlour at this sensitive stage of his life, hearing all sorts of obscene jokes from women about the way his face divulged the sins his hand must be committing at nights. As the teenage boy backed off with unsteady steps, he did not notice the cat that had without a sound snuck in through the open window. All eyes were turned toward the animal when it let out a mighty ‘meow’ upon having its tail trampled.
It was a thick-coated, grim-faced, strapping cat as black as tar: one of those that looked upon every human they saw with narrowed eyes as if there had been a bloody fight between cats and humans from time immemorial. Still, as the round strand of hair starting from the sides of its nose down under its chin looked as if someone had dipped it in a bowl of yogurt, it had a cute side in spite of everything.
‘Come, Garbage! Come here, you nuisance!’ Cemal called out when he realized
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