* * *
Later,when Birdie is deep in Naptown, Snoozeville, I check my emails for any response on the Chuck search. But there’s zilch. I turn the burner phone on and off a few times, just to make sure it’s working properly. It is. And no-one hascalled.
Anders returns from his workout session, holding a black briefcase an excitable glint in his eyes. Hope blooms in my chest. Has he foundsomething?
‘Hair time!’hesays.
Oh. Yeah. I agreed that in exchange for letting me stay here he could do my hair onceaday.
He opens the briefcase onto the dining table to reveal that it is actually a briefcase full of hairdressing tools, gleaming like chef’s knives. Wow. He means business. What have I let myselfinfor?
‘I… can we do it tomorrow?’ I ask. ‘I’m, um, going for dinnertonight.’
‘With the comedian?’ Anders says, raising an eyebrow. From the way he says it, I can’t tell if it’s derogatory or complimentary. ‘All the more reason to have a littlepampering!’
I suspect our definitions of ‘pampering’ differ,somewhat.
Crap. I can’t go to dinner with anotherunicornhorn.
‘You promised,’ Anders scolds. ‘That was the deal,darling?’
He’s right. I did promise. And Olive Brewster doesn’t break her promises. Whatever he does to my bonce is going to have to stay like that for my date – I get the feeling that taking it out beforehand will hurt his feelings. And I definitely don’t want todothat.
‘Okay… Can… you keep it subtle?’ I ask. ‘Like, no structures. Bouffants or…horns.’
Anders shrugs a bony shoulder. ‘I’m an artist, Olive. I do what the muse tells me to do. Do you not trust me, after all we’ve beenthrough?’
‘Um… I don’t know youthatwell!’
‘Yet you stay in my house, accept my hospitality.’ He sniffs, looking hurt. ‘Callmeto rescue you from incarceration. I think we know each other wellenough.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. If it weren’t for Anders, who knows what would be happening to me in jail right now. ‘I’m sorry. Goforit.’
He licks his lips, pulls out his scissors and snaps them together in a way that looks entirelymenacing.
Heregoes.
* * *
Two hourslater and Anders blasts my hair with a mist of extra-super-strength hairspray. Once again he has not allowed me to peek at the work in progress, which means that my bum has been glued to this chair for all that time and now I have a numb butt cheek, which I didn’t even realise was a physical possibility. But it is. Itreallyis.
I hobble across the parquet floor as Anders proudly leads me to the hallwaymirror.
My shoulders hike up to ears, in anticipation of the possible monstrosity he has concocted atop my head. What will it be this time? Medusa style snakes? A ginormous mohawk?Antlers?
And then I seemyself.
Ohwow.
Wow.
I look like me. But a polished, put together, confident, sexy version of me. Anders has waved and brushed my hair so that the curls are big and uniform, one half of my hair across my face, almost obscuring my eye, and the other side tucked behind my ear with a hidden clip. I’m practically a Hollywoodstarlet!
I shake my head in disbelief and look closer. There are shiny copper strands subtly laced throughout the do. They catch the light when I turnmyhead!
‘How…?’ I ask, putting a delicate hand to my hair. I vetoed any use of hair dye… But these strands of copper are astounding – they brighten myentireface!
‘Extensions!’ Anders declares, a huge grin stretched across his normally motionless face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so delighted. He looks crazy. But in a good,happyway.
