Curl Up and Dye

As she rose that morning to yet again tread the same pavement to work there was an air of discontent around her. It was as though she had suddenly realised that this was what her whole life was coming to. There was nothing beyond this, as far as progress was concerned. She could go no further. This was it.

She stepped outside and shivered slightly with the crisp, untouched air. The streets shimmered with dew and the morning sun glinted on satellite dishes peppered across the estate. She did not lead an ideal life, and knew it. So much had once been expected of her that she really once believed she would walk into the world and make it better. Like everyone else, she thought she would make an impression. But had now realised that the world was too small for everyone to be great. Millions of others were in her position. Contented nobodys. Just going through the motions because it was what was expected of them and the thought of something better was quickly banished, the question 'why?' never asked. Until now.

She stepped carefully between last night's fish and chip papers blowing aimlessly in the fume-filled wind. She walked this road every day, devoutly following its path, blinding herself to the life it held. The people here had nothing left to hope for. For them life was over and had become a repetitive act rather than an individual performance. Sometimes things just happened like that and there wasn't much you could do about it. Well, she was going to. She had had enough, seen enough, done enough. She went into the small salon and took her coat off.

'Morning Mrs Jackson. What will it be this time? Just a trim?' She watched the snippets of hair fall to the ground in a pile at her feet. This was where people came when they felt down and out. They really believed they could be someone different by leaving some of their hair on the floor behind them. Or maybe it was just the feeling that this gave them. Confidence.

The hairdryer drowned her thoughts. The phone rang. 'Yes, two o'clock will be fine. See you tomorrow. Thank you Mrs Jones'.

She twisted the rods into the old grey hair. It was strange how different it was to the younger customers', so weary, dead and leaden.

She briefly looked around her. There were a couple of people waiting, other reading magazines under the dryer,  another having her hair washed. While she used synthetic air to dry fake coloured hair.

And always the smell of heat and shampoo. The time wore on, yet seemed to dangle on the minutes long enough to accentuate the weariness of her task.

It was a strange sort of life. Constantly having people come to you to be changed, be made into something different; and even she, having turned over the sign to 'closed' walked home the same person as she had been that morning. Perhaps a little more tired, perhaps a little older, perhaps a little closer to dying; but she would go back the next day and see Mrs Jones at two o'clock as well as the other women in need of a miracle. She couldn't work miracles. She was only a hairdresser, only human.

As she walked home she breathed in deeply so as to get the smell of shampoo out of her lungs. It was as clear cut as that, like black on white.