Chapter Seven: Timeless by Rosaline Saul
When I can hardly see over the pile of clothes draped over my forearms, I walk to the pay points. I stand in the short queue, and I notice a beautiful black Celtic cross hanging from the impulse-buy display-unit, conveniently located in the narrow stand-in-line passage toward the tills. I move my arms awkwardly and I wrap my pinkie around the chain until I wrangle it from the display-unit, just in time for me to move forward for my turn to pay.
I drop the clothes onto the counter unceremoniously. The
elderly teller starts to scan my items, and she looks up at me sympathetically.
She asks, “Who died, honey?”
She probably thinks my new black wardrobe is for a funeral.
Here everybody knows everybody, and usually when someone dies, foreigners will
stick out like sore thumbs—like us. We moved here six years ago from England.
Foreigners usually do not know the deceased went to school with the person you
are talking to, nor were friends of so and so’s uncle’s cousin twice removed.
I look down and she assumes I do not want to talk about it.
She says with concern, “It gets easier, honey.”
I nod my head as if I understand and then when she gives me
the total for my purchase, I slide the credit card across to her.
Walking out of the shop with my bags, I consider I would
have to catch the bus home because these bags would get progressively heavier
when I walked back up the hill to my house.
I walk past a hairdressing salon. About five steps further,
I stop. The man behind me almost collides with me. I turn around, ignoring his
angry complaints, and walk back to the hairdresser. My long brown hair will
never suit my new look.
Uncertainly, I walk in and go to the counter. The girl
behind the counter looks up at me, and then she smiles friendly.
I ask, “Is it possible to fit me in for a colour and a cut?”
She looks down at her appointments and she taps the end of
her pencil against the book. She looks up at me again and she says, “Is Angie
okay? She is free now.”
I cannot remember when last I set my two feet in a
hairdressing salon, so I have no idea who Angie might be, but I say anyway,
“Okay.”
She smiles and tells me, “Go through to the back, to the
basins.”
I follow her instructions and sit down on the chair. A girl
comes and without a word, she gently pushes my head backward. She washes,
treats and rinses my hair. I am starting to get a cramp in my neck when at last
she is finished.
She wraps a warm towel around my head, and she directs me
toward a chair in front of a large mirror. I sit down on the black leather
chair, but I do not want it to look as if I am staring vainly at myself in the
mirror, so I swivel the chair away from it.
Another girl approaches me, and she asks friendly, “What are
we doing for you today?”
Timidly I reply, “A colour and cut.”
“Have
you chosen a style?”
“Not
yet. I want it short though.”
She offers, “We have this new thing. I can scan your face
into our computer and then we can choose a style to suit your face.” She sees
me hesitate, so she continues, “It is not expensive.”
I decide to splurge. I have a good excuse anyway to be going
on this rebellious emergency-spending spree.
She takes a digital photo of me and then she uploads it to
her computer. Together we look for the perfect hairstyle to match my soon to be
pitch-black hair. She colours my hair black on the screen, and I realize it is
a bit harsh and it will take a while for me to get used to it, but my mind is
made up. My hair will be black when I leave this salon.
Short will definitely not suit me though, so we decide to
only cut it shorter so the tips will brush my shoulders.
Angie, the girl cutting and colouring my hair is chatty and
I enjoy the hour plus one I am stuck in the salon with her.
My hair looks beautiful when she is finished. It hangs dead
straight, shiny black past my cheeks and barely touches my shoulders. I move my
head from side to side and I love the way it moves. I feel a renewed sense of
self-confidence.
When I pay, I cringe a little, anticipating my future
troubles concerning this credit card bill.
I smile brightly when I walk out of the shop. It already
feels as if I can take on the world. It is amazing what a new hairstyle can do
for a person’s mood. I must definitely do it more often.
Impulsively, I decide to walk from the mall to the centre of
the village. I will go to my favourite coffee shop and select the biggest slice
of chocolate cake they have. I usually always eat their delicious Lasagne, but
I predict from now on Lasagne will always leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
I walk out of the mall and notice the grey clouds have moved
on; the sky is clear again. I consider taking off the unsightly jacket, but I
am not sure what to do with my shopping bags. I do not want to put them down
onto the still wet paving.
Outside the mall, I walk onto the pedestrian bridge, which crosses the Boyne River and is my shortest route into the village. Looking down, I see the grey, dark water swirling past under my feet. The bridge is always crowded with people, so I look back up to avoid unnecessary impacts and rude mutters from the other people.
On my way to the coffee shop, I stop at the school uniform shop, and I buy myself a new school skirt, a longer version of the one I have at home.
