{A fabulous writing practice book called "Write the Story" (available from Picadillyinc.com) guides my everyday "Pajama Pages"; those pages you write when you're in your pyjamas and you haven't yet brushed your teeth before crawling into or out of bed... early morning or late night scribbles. Hope it entertains you.}
Tuesday, 19 October 2021
Theme: A HAIRDRESSER RECEIVED A SHOCKING CONFESSION.
poverty | marksman | bookshelf | backspace | hedge | cuckoo | pumpkin | courteous | deduction | acute
HERE'S MY PAGE TODAY:
My regular has attempted colouring her own hair again and it was an odd mix of cuckoo and pumpkin. I tried to be courteous but was ready to admonish her for the damage she had done to my previous hair art. I was also prepared if she pleaded poverty or blamed the pandemic; there was no excuse for this mess. She didn’t offer either, instead she watched the distaste slideshow on my face as if she was perusing the titles on a bookshelf, her head turning this way and that before she said,
“You know I’m an excellent marksman?”
My hand hung in the air, comb in hand, an invisible cloth erased my intended reprimands; delete…backspace…backspace.
What? Was it a threat or an idle observation escaping a tired mind? A marksman? Did she mean something else; got the words confused?
She’s eighty. My deduction was an early case of Alzheimer's but the notion wasn’t cold in my brain when she whispered,
“I can shoot the pimple off a fat man’s arse at 200 meters.”
I frowned and took a step back, comb dropping in my grip, hanging from a weak pinch as if I had forgotten the comb's purpose; as if I had just fished it out of the toilet. My earlier assessment of this client was more acute than ever.
“Yeah, “ she continued, “ most people react like you. It’s as if people think that age somehow deletes one’s skills or history, turning everyone into angels or something; their professional lives lost in the grey hair and wrinkles.”
She winked as I gulped and swallowed various "professions" that included excellent marksman skills. She nodded at the comb, but I was hesitant. I looked at her wheelchair. It wasn’t as if she could jump a hedge, but a bullet sure made her reach a whole lot further.
“So,” she went on, “make sure you get the colour right, ok?”
I sure did.
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