Read Online Improper English by Katie MacAlister - Free Book Online Page A

Americans say them. I think tickety-boo is one of them. Honestly, Isabella, where did you find this guy? He’s the embodiment of a stereotypical gay hairdresser—all flamboyant your hair should be a reflection of your inner goddess, not of the outer whore -type comments. And to add insult to injury, he’s from Pittsburgh or somewhere god-awful like that! He’s just not what I would expect in a chic London salon.”
    Isabella waved at the framed awards on the wall above the mirror facing me. The World’s Greatest Hair Artist blared out from one of them. I leaned in closer.
    “He’s been named International Hairdresser of the Year three times,” she murmured, studying the magazine.
    I left the hairdresser accolades and sidled over to a framed magazine article. “ ‘Revered by his peers, Manuel Sorby-Ruiz pioneered well-known cuts such as the White Russian, the Elf, and the Imogene Coca,’ ” I read out loud. “Huh. It says his motivating factor is to create ‘ordinary hair for ordinary people.’ ”
    I considered that sentiment for a minute as I resumedmy seat and glared in the mirror at my wet head. With my hair skinned back I looked like a petulant seal. “I think that’s a bit insulting, really, saying he wants to make ordinary people look even more ordinary.”
    “He’s very much in demand,” Isabella said, unconcerned, leisurely flipping a page.
    “I’m sure he is, and I’m sure he’s very good, and I can’t thank you enough for getting me an appointment this morning, but truthfully, I’m not used to having my hair cut by”—I glanced at Manuel’s wall of fame and picked out a good line—“ ‘a god amongst hairdressers.’ ”
    Isabella glanced up and smiled at my reflection. “He does have an ego, but I assure you it’s well deserved. Stop worrying and enjoy the experience. You’ll look wonderful when he’s done.”
    “After paying ninety pounds for a simple cut and blowdry, I’d better look bloody fabulous,” I retorted, but I did so quietly because Manuel returned chattering nonstop, followed by a flunky toting several bottles of hair products and an armload of fluffy yellow towels.
    Two hours and a head full of Manuel Sorby-Ruizbrand mousse later, I was walking through Covent Garden swinging my hair from side to side. Although I mourned the loss of my hair, I had to admit I liked the feeling as it swished on my bare neck. Perhaps this change would be good after all. Perhaps it was a sign my life was taking a turn for the better.
    “It’s kicky!” I said, watching my hair in every window I passed. “I never thought I’d have kicky hair. Although it’s a bit gunky kicky right now, it’ll be truly kicky later, after I wash all of the steel-girder-strength mousse out of it.”
    Isabella, who had been looking on indulgently while Istudied my hair from every possible angle, cast a horrified glance at my head. “Manuel said your hair was too thick to maintain that style without mousse.”
    She nudged the bag of hair products he had pressed upon me as I left (to the tune of some £30, I found out later when I looked at the charge slip), adding, “It won’t look the same if you try it without following his instructions.”
    “I have a neck,” I said in wonder as I toyed with the few tendrils he had snipped to softly frame my face. “Will you look at that? I have a neck! You know, Isabella, this may not be the tragedy I first thought it was; this may end up being a good thing. I mean, look at me! My hair is actually cute now. It’s so short. And it’s shorter in the back than the front! That’s so sexy! I actually look sexy! I’ve never looked sexy before. Hey, if I stand like this, and you were a man, would you fall to your knees before me?”
    Isabella made a little face at my dramatic pose, grabbed my arm, and steered me toward the Lamb and Flag. “Come along, we won’t be able to get a table if you stand about admiring yourself much longer.”
    I allowed her to hustle