Hairdresser unfolding her life story overhead
Cutting my hair to precise specifications meanwhile
Hair falling like crescent feathers on foolscap: snip snap...
My hairdresser is drop-dead gorgeous. A pale Cleopatra
She is presently building up the gumption to leave her partner of 20 years
I am helping her, or trying to. She says I help.
Women's mags abound
A man's voice to African drums is male and gravely over the airwaves
Otherwise it's wall-to-wall woman. The feminine is warm and reassuring
She tells me that her husband Seb has become obsessed with making money.
She and their nearly five-year-old son are a distant second and third
He is obsessed, she says.
"It's almost funny" a snide aside. "Almost. Until I smash the car..."
"If you do that again don't bother coming home," he says.
She wants to leave him now.
Vicky has long owned the thriving salon. She employs three and works there full-time herself, even during pregnancy. Together, she and her husband own the up-market salon along with various other properties that he manages as his work.
At forty-three Nicola remains physically perfect. A trophy wife, he says.
He is quite good looking too, apparently. He used to be a mechanic.
She's not about the money. She's really not. She wants a husband.
This is what he expects of her as she remains a full-time earner in the paid job market:
His meals bought, cooked, served, and tidied away
Never to even consider making her any kind of meal
To do none of the clothes-washing and sorting
To clean nothing: sheets, showers, socks, jocks, the lot!
No comments:
Post a Comment