Thursday, 17 January 2013

Monologue - The Hairdresser

I was going to put this forward to Mslexia magazine, but missed the deadline - 200 words on The Hairdresser:

Mine is the small room at the top of the house squeezed into this harbour town. Behind thick stone walls I weave, my fingers rigid with cold in the dull winter, swollen and dry in the bright summer months. I watch the people swarm below, their hair whipped and scurried by the sea winds. I save the lost hair shed by young and old, the hair that is lifted up on the salt breeze, drifting through my open window.

It is a careful job and I take my time, I am not as quick as I used to be, but they will wait for my work, I am still needed. I conjure baby down, gossamer thin; heavy curls with conker shine, grey and wiry, coarse or fine. Hair that is swept into tumbleweed from the salon floor, bagged and left to bulge, feather-light, outside my door. I will use it all. My wigs are the best in town, in the county in the country. So they say.


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