as if about to be guillotined – face upwards.
She was never able to recall clearly all the stages and details of her metamorphosis: the washings and dryings, the dampings and dabbings, the strange smells … Twice, a dryer was lowered over her head and she was handed what Daurene called ‘books’, actually the floppiest of women’s magazines. At first Daurene talked willingly, prodded by questions. Merry was anxious to avoid being questioned herself as she had not yet invented reasons for arriving wherever she had arrived. She learned how Daurene had got backing for her business, ‘And I’m doing ever so well, dear – booked solid from twelve o’clock, couldn’t have taken you if I hadn’t had a cancellation. It’s quite a job, running the place single-handed. Excuse me a minute, dear.’ She dived into the shop to serve a customer, giving Merry time to decide on being a typist about to look for work in London.
Daurene, on returning and hearing this, merely said:
‘Fancy! Well, good luck, dear – and now don’t talk for a bit. I’ve got to concentrate.’ From then on, she spoke mostly to herself, giving advice and encouragement. ‘A bit more – no, don’t overdo it … That’s got it. Now we’re getting somewhere.’
At last the tinting was finished but Merry was still not allowed to see herself. ‘Not till I’ve styled you, dear,’ said Daurene, brandishing the scissors. ‘They say it takes a man to cut hair but don’t you believe it.’
The next quarter of an hour was alarming. Daurene cut, combed, flashed and clashed her scissors, to the accompaniment of remarks such as, ‘My word, you’ve got a lot to get rid of – what a mop!’ Hair flew into the air, the floor was thick with it – or rather, Merry guessed it was; she did not dare to look down, fearing that unless she kept quite still she might lose anear. Once she ventured: ‘Surely that’s enough?’ Daurene went on cutting.
But at last she put the scissors down, combed the hair carefully and said: ‘Well, there we are – and if you don’t like it I’ll break my heart.’ She then swung the chair round to face the mirror.
Merry’s first sensation was one of utter astonishment – not at the colour, which she adored, or at the styling; she knew instantly that this ordered disorder was both fashionable and becoming. What astounded her was that she simply did not recognize herself. The face in the glass might have been that of a stranger. But how splendid – especially as the stranger was far prettier than she had ever hoped to be. And she looked years older, quite grown up. Her delight was so great that she forgot all about Mavis, and it was the voice of Merry at her youngest which exclaimed: ‘Oh, thank you, thank you! It’s marvellous – like a lovely copper cap! Oh, darling Daurene, you’re a great artist.’
She then sprang up and hugged Daurene who looked extremely astonished. Fortunately she then heard a customer in the shop, so Merry was left alone long enough to calm down and grow older.
After gazing at herself again, most blissfully, she opened her suitcase. Now she would change into the white sweater. Daurene, returning after showing the customer into the next cubicle, said: ‘My word, that suits you! Well, here’s your little bill.’
It was a large little bill but Merry grudged not one penny of it. She even added a handsome tip – then wondered if she ought to have tipped a proprietress. Daurene obviously did not share that doubt. She just said, ‘Thanks ever so and ever so glad you’re pleased. Well, bye bye,’ and then went off to the next cubicle. The customer had brought a hairstyle cut out of a ‘book’. ‘Might do a lot for you,’ Daurene pronounced earnestly. Merry knew she was already forgotten. Her magicaltransformation had, for the magician, been just a run-of- the-mill morning’s work.
Now Mavis must be left behind in the hair-strewn cubicle. Merry unpinned the wilted pink rose and
She was never able to recall clearly all the stages and details of her metamorphosis: the washings and dryings, the dampings and dabbings, the strange smells … Twice, a dryer was lowered over her head and she was handed what Daurene called ‘books’, actually the floppiest of women’s magazines. At first Daurene talked willingly, prodded by questions. Merry was anxious to avoid being questioned herself as she had not yet invented reasons for arriving wherever she had arrived. She learned how Daurene had got backing for her business, ‘And I’m doing ever so well, dear – booked solid from twelve o’clock, couldn’t have taken you if I hadn’t had a cancellation. It’s quite a job, running the place single-handed. Excuse me a minute, dear.’ She dived into the shop to serve a customer, giving Merry time to decide on being a typist about to look for work in London.
Daurene, on returning and hearing this, merely said:
‘Fancy! Well, good luck, dear – and now don’t talk for a bit. I’ve got to concentrate.’ From then on, she spoke mostly to herself, giving advice and encouragement. ‘A bit more – no, don’t overdo it … That’s got it. Now we’re getting somewhere.’
At last the tinting was finished but Merry was still not allowed to see herself. ‘Not till I’ve styled you, dear,’ said Daurene, brandishing the scissors. ‘They say it takes a man to cut hair but don’t you believe it.’
The next quarter of an hour was alarming. Daurene cut, combed, flashed and clashed her scissors, to the accompaniment of remarks such as, ‘My word, you’ve got a lot to get rid of – what a mop!’ Hair flew into the air, the floor was thick with it – or rather, Merry guessed it was; she did not dare to look down, fearing that unless she kept quite still she might lose anear. Once she ventured: ‘Surely that’s enough?’ Daurene went on cutting.
But at last she put the scissors down, combed the hair carefully and said: ‘Well, there we are – and if you don’t like it I’ll break my heart.’ She then swung the chair round to face the mirror.
Merry’s first sensation was one of utter astonishment – not at the colour, which she adored, or at the styling; she knew instantly that this ordered disorder was both fashionable and becoming. What astounded her was that she simply did not recognize herself. The face in the glass might have been that of a stranger. But how splendid – especially as the stranger was far prettier than she had ever hoped to be. And she looked years older, quite grown up. Her delight was so great that she forgot all about Mavis, and it was the voice of Merry at her youngest which exclaimed: ‘Oh, thank you, thank you! It’s marvellous – like a lovely copper cap! Oh, darling Daurene, you’re a great artist.’
She then sprang up and hugged Daurene who looked extremely astonished. Fortunately she then heard a customer in the shop, so Merry was left alone long enough to calm down and grow older.
After gazing at herself again, most blissfully, she opened her suitcase. Now she would change into the white sweater. Daurene, returning after showing the customer into the next cubicle, said: ‘My word, that suits you! Well, here’s your little bill.’
It was a large little bill but Merry grudged not one penny of it. She even added a handsome tip – then wondered if she ought to have tipped a proprietress. Daurene obviously did not share that doubt. She just said, ‘Thanks ever so and ever so glad you’re pleased. Well, bye bye,’ and then went off to the next cubicle. The customer had brought a hairstyle cut out of a ‘book’. ‘Might do a lot for you,’ Daurene pronounced earnestly. Merry knew she was already forgotten. Her magicaltransformation had, for the magician, been just a run-of- the-mill morning’s work.
Now Mavis must be left behind in the hair-strewn cubicle. Merry unpinned the wilted pink rose and
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