hair, looking at it. “I can do that if you don’t mind Stacey here doing your blow-dry after? You’ve got a lovely base color, but I can see the line where you used to get some sun and haven’t for a while, yes?”
I nod because she’s correct.
“I can scatter you some highlights just through the top; you don’t need a full head. I’ll put more around the front, to mimic what would happen if you spent a month on the beach. Then I’ll just give you a few face framing layers.”
“Sounds good,” I say with a smile. “I’m a bit nervous. I’ve never had my hair colored before.”
“I’ll basically mimic your natural color when you’ve been in the sun. It will be subtle; don’t worry.”
She sets some pots out and stirs horrible smelling potions together, and then she gets a broad brush and starts to paint the stuff on strands of my hair, covering them with foil. When she’s done, she brings a lamp over and lets me bake for about twenty minutes. She washes my hair, dries it off with a towel, then wheels me back to the mirror. Snipping at my hair expertly, she squints her eyes in concentration as she cuts bits here and there.
“Jo, Mrs. Bartlock’s just cancelled.”
The stylist stops mid snip, smiles at me, and shrugs. “Oh, well, no rush. I can do your blow-dry too.”
She asks me if I have any holidays planned to which I reply, no. She asks me if I’m going out this weekend to which I reply, no. Then she asks if I’ve got a boyfriend to which I reply, no.
She narrows her eyes further and stops cutting to put one hand on her hip. “Let me get this right… No holiday plans, no social life, and no man in your life? You’re a pretty girl; what’s going on?”
“I’m not pretty,” I say.
Not like Suzy. Not like the mysterious dark-haired woman talking to Konstantin, and most certainly not like the women I saw him with in the photographs I found of him out and about.
Any foolish notions I had of Konstantin pining for me were smashed on the rocks of reality then. Yes, he flirted with me, maybe he had a mild interest in me, but he hasn’t ever pined for me the way I have for him, and he never would. The man has dated genuine, world famous supermodels. And I thought he might be half in love with little old me. I’m such a fool.
I’m not doing any of this for him. I’m doing it for me. To brighten my day and my mood. I’m fed up of looking unwell and tired. As if the worries of the world are weighing down on me, which they are.
“Do you want me to do you a fake tan?” Jo asks. “I’ve got the time now, and it will make your hair color really pop. We use the spray tan so it will dry instantly, and it gives a wash of color straightaway. Go lovely with your freckles.”
“Erm, not sure. Does it smell bad?”
“No, it smells like coconuts,” Stacey supplies from her place filing her nails behind the cash register.
“Okay then, why not?”
Jo smiles and finishes cutting my hair. “I’ll blow-dry you after the tan,” she says.
I find myself with my hair in a plastic cap, my face wiped clean of all makeup, and my body naked as Jo sprays me down with brown gunk. I feel like a fence being spray varnished. She wipes my hands and feet down with a wet wipe, so they don’t look too brown, and rubs in any bits that aren’t even. Then she dabs at my face with a small towel and smiles.
“You look healthier already. Okay, let’s do your hair, and then I’ll put you the tiniest bit of makeup on so you don’t look weird with just fake-tan on your face.”
I get dressed and go sit in the chair. Stacey provides me with a magazine and a coffee as Jo does my hair, and then I’m wheeled over to another station while she dabs makeup on my face. I tell her I don’t like a lot, and she says she’ll keep it natural. She smears concealer on, to hide my dark circles, she tells me disapprovingly.
“You need to sleep more,” she says. “I won’t use a foundation, though, because you’ve got lovely freckles on your nose and cheeks.”
Then she comes at me with a brush loaded with blusher. She adds a coat