A Perfect Match
It’s my sister’s fault that I’m standing outside a hair salon on the Saturday of my anniversary, too scared to go in. I’m not sure I was this nervous on my actual wedding day.
Androulla had been bugging me for months that my look needed “updating” and that the man to solve all my (hair-related) problems was Chicky.
“Sort of name is Chicky?” I’d asked, over coffee and carrot cake.
She rolled her eyes. “The man is Michelangelo with a pair of scissors. Does it matter what his name is?”
“I don’t want some achingly trendy, skinny-jeaned waif who’ll shave half my hair off, dye the other half green, and then charge me an arm and a leg.”
The rain had plastered my hair to my forehead. It was probably illegal to be in such a buzzing place with hair this bad
“Chicky is the best,” Androulla insisted. “My mate Maura went last month and said he had magic fingers. The way he caressed her scalp almost gave her an orgasm.”
“How much had she drunk?”
“She’s six months pregnant!”
“Must have
