Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,59

bits. After this delicious repast, and with a small grin of triumph at the thought of my colleagues having to remain behind at their desks for the rest of the afternoon, I took a bus into town.

Heliotrope was in a smart street in the city center, on the ground floor of a Victorian sandstone building. It was certainly not the sort of place I’d usually frequent—loud music, aggressively fashionable staff and far too many mirrors. I imagined this might be where the musician went for a haircut, and that made me feel slightly better about it. Perhaps one day we’d be sitting side by side in those black leather chairs, holding hands under the hair dryers.

I waited for the receptionist to finish her phone call, and stepped away from the huge vase of white and pink lilies on the counter. Their smell snagged in the back of my throat, like fur or feathers. I gagged; it wasn’t something meant for humans.

I’d forgotten how noisy hairdressers’ salons were, the constant hum of dryers and inane chat, and positioned myself in the window seat, having donned a black nylon kimono which, I was alarmed to see, was already sprinkled with short hair clippings snipped from a previous client. I quickly brushed them off.

Laura arrived, looking just as glamorous as before, and led me toward a seat in front of a terrifying row of mirrors.

“Did you have a good time on Saturday?” she said, fussing around with a stool until she was seated behind me at the same height. She didn’t look at me directly, but into the mirror, where she addressed my reflection; I found myself doing the same. It was strangely relaxing.

“I did,” I said. “It was a splendid evening.”

“Dad’s doing my nut in already, staying in the spare room,” she said, smiling, “and I’ve got another two weeks of it. I don’t know how I’ll cope.” I nodded.

“Parents can certainly be challenging, in my experience,” I said. We exchanged a sympathetic glance.

“Now then, what are we doing for you today?” she said, unfastening the rubber band at the bottom of my braid and fanning it out. I stared at my reflection. My hair was mousy brown, parted in the center, straight and not particularly thick. Human hair, doing what human hair does: growing on my head.

“Something different,” I said. “What would you suggest?”

“How brave are you prepared to be, Eleanor?” Laura asked. This was the correct question. I am brave. I am brave, courageous, Eleanor Oliphant.

“Do whatever you want,” I said. She looked delighted.

“Color too?”

I considered this.

“Would it be a normal human hair color? I don’t think I’d like pink or blue or anything like that.”

“I’ll give you a shoulder-length, lightly layered choppy bob, with caramel and honey pieces woven through and a long sweeping fringe,” she said. “How does that sound?”

“It sounds like an incomprehensible pile of gibberish,” I said. She laughed at my reflection, and then stopped, perhaps because I wasn’t laughing.

“Trust me, Eleanor,” she said earnestly. “It’ll be beautiful.”

“Beautiful is not a word normally associated with my appearance,” I said, highly skeptical. She patted my arm.

“Just you wait,” she said gently. “MILEY!” she screeched, almost causing me to fall from my chair. “Come and help me mix up some color!”

A short, chubby girl with bad skin and beautiful eyes came trotting up. Laura gave a prescription involving percentages and codes which might as well have been for gunpowder.

“Tea? Coffee? Magazine?” Laura said. I could scarcely believe it when I found myself, five minutes later, sipping a cappuccino and perusing the latest edition of OK! magazine. Look at me, I thought.

“Ready?” Laura asked. Her hand, warm and soft, brushed against the back of my neck as she took the hank and heft of my hair and twisted it into a rope behind me. The slow noise of the scissors slicing through it was like the sound of embers shifting in a fire: tinkly, dangerous. It was over in a moment. Laura held the hair aloft, a triumphant Delilah.

“I’ll cut it properly after the color’s done,” she said. “We just need a level playing field at this stage.” Because I was sitting motionless, it didn’t feel any different. She dropped the hair on the floor where it lay like a dead animal. A skinny boy, who looked like he’d rather be doing almost anything else, was sweeping up very, very slowly, and nudged my hair creature into his dustpan with a long-handled brush. I watched his progress round the