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Authors: Gerbrand Bakker
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sign of moving towards the till.
Standing in front of her, the doctor lit a cigarette. ‘You coming by again?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘So I can check the wound. Among other things.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’ She kept her eyes stubbornly fixed on a photo of an enormous green pumpkin.
‘Whatever you think best,’ the doctor said. ‘Whatever you think best.’ He left.
‘Come and sit over here,’ said the hairdresser. ‘Then we’ll start by giving your hair a nice wash.’
*
The hairdresser kneaded and stroked. Her hands were soft. The water was exactly the right temperature, the shampoo smelt very pleasant. As far as she was concerned, they could postpone the cutting for a while.
‘How would you like it?’ the hairdresser asked. ‘A trim?’
‘Short, please. Easy.’
‘The badger. Was that really true?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And badgers come out in the daytime too.’ They said nothing more during the wash. When it was finished, she thought she could smell Mrs Evans again, despite the shampoo. She looked at herself in the mirror – hair gone from around her neck, face pale, eyes dark – and knew that she was going to ask for something she had never asked for before. ‘Could you perhaps turn me round?’
‘What?’
‘Turn me round. The chair.’
‘But why?’
‘Because I…’ She didn’t know how to explain it.
‘You won’t be able to see what I’m doing.’
‘I’m confident you’ll do a good job. I like surprises.’
‘This is a new one on me,’ the hairdresser said, turning the chair with her foot. ‘I can’t see what I’m doing properly now either.’ She tapped a cigarette out of the packet and set the door ajar, after first opening it all the way and looking left and right down the street. Then she laid the burning cigarette on the ashtray. ‘Is this a Dutch custom?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Well, here we go then.’ A quarter of an hour later she was finished. No new customers had come in. The hairdresser used a dryer to dry the gel she had rubbed into her hair and pulled it into shape with rough tugs. The cigarette had burnt down unsmoked.
She got up without turning to face the mirror and walked over to the small counter with the till on it.
‘Don’t you want to look?’
‘No. I really do want it to be a surprise.’
The hairdresser stared at her and opened her mouth, perhaps to ask if that was another Dutch custom.
‘I like surprises,’ she said.
Deeply insulted, the hairdresser closed her mouth and typed an amount on the old-fashioned cash register, which rang loudly.
She paid, said a friendly goodbye and walked out of the salon, leaving the door slightly ajar. A little way down the street she glanced back and saw the hairdresser standing outside her shop, one arm crossed under her breasts with the hand tucked in her armpit, a cigarette in the other hand, staring fixedly at the perfumery across the road, her bleached hair thin in the slowly rising cloud of sunlit cigarette smoke.She kept a grip on herself through the narrow streets and the car park, even though there was hardly anyone around. It was only when she was sitting in the car and saw herself looking like a startled animal in the rear-view mirror that she began to cry.
25
She inspected the wood supply in the pigsty, looking and counting, and decided not to light fires in more than one room at a time. Then there’d be enough. And if she did run out, she could always sit in the kitchen near the cooker.
The sun was shining again and the smoke from her cigarette rose straight up, just like the hairdresser’s yesterday. She leant against the light-coloured wall of the sty and felt its warmth on her back through her nightie, but her neck was cold to touch. Her head was light, as if kilos of hair had been cut off. She smoked with her eyes shut.
Here she was, without a single appointment, without a single obligation. She thought of the geese and the cord strung
Standing in front of her, the doctor lit a cigarette. ‘You coming by again?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘So I can check the wound. Among other things.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’ She kept her eyes stubbornly fixed on a photo of an enormous green pumpkin.
‘Whatever you think best,’ the doctor said. ‘Whatever you think best.’ He left.
‘Come and sit over here,’ said the hairdresser. ‘Then we’ll start by giving your hair a nice wash.’
*
The hairdresser kneaded and stroked. Her hands were soft. The water was exactly the right temperature, the shampoo smelt very pleasant. As far as she was concerned, they could postpone the cutting for a while.
‘How would you like it?’ the hairdresser asked. ‘A trim?’
‘Short, please. Easy.’
‘The badger. Was that really true?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And badgers come out in the daytime too.’ They said nothing more during the wash. When it was finished, she thought she could smell Mrs Evans again, despite the shampoo. She looked at herself in the mirror – hair gone from around her neck, face pale, eyes dark – and knew that she was going to ask for something she had never asked for before. ‘Could you perhaps turn me round?’
‘What?’
‘Turn me round. The chair.’
‘But why?’
‘Because I…’ She didn’t know how to explain it.
‘You won’t be able to see what I’m doing.’
‘I’m confident you’ll do a good job. I like surprises.’
‘This is a new one on me,’ the hairdresser said, turning the chair with her foot. ‘I can’t see what I’m doing properly now either.’ She tapped a cigarette out of the packet and set the door ajar, after first opening it all the way and looking left and right down the street. Then she laid the burning cigarette on the ashtray. ‘Is this a Dutch custom?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Well, here we go then.’ A quarter of an hour later she was finished. No new customers had come in. The hairdresser used a dryer to dry the gel she had rubbed into her hair and pulled it into shape with rough tugs. The cigarette had burnt down unsmoked.
She got up without turning to face the mirror and walked over to the small counter with the till on it.
‘Don’t you want to look?’
‘No. I really do want it to be a surprise.’
The hairdresser stared at her and opened her mouth, perhaps to ask if that was another Dutch custom.
‘I like surprises,’ she said.
Deeply insulted, the hairdresser closed her mouth and typed an amount on the old-fashioned cash register, which rang loudly.
She paid, said a friendly goodbye and walked out of the salon, leaving the door slightly ajar. A little way down the street she glanced back and saw the hairdresser standing outside her shop, one arm crossed under her breasts with the hand tucked in her armpit, a cigarette in the other hand, staring fixedly at the perfumery across the road, her bleached hair thin in the slowly rising cloud of sunlit cigarette smoke.She kept a grip on herself through the narrow streets and the car park, even though there was hardly anyone around. It was only when she was sitting in the car and saw herself looking like a startled animal in the rear-view mirror that she began to cry.
25
She inspected the wood supply in the pigsty, looking and counting, and decided not to light fires in more than one room at a time. Then there’d be enough. And if she did run out, she could always sit in the kitchen near the cooker.
The sun was shining again and the smoke from her cigarette rose straight up, just like the hairdresser’s yesterday. She leant against the light-coloured wall of the sty and felt its warmth on her back through her nightie, but her neck was cold to touch. Her head was light, as if kilos of hair had been cut off. She smoked with her eyes shut.
Here she was, without a single appointment, without a single obligation. She thought of the geese and the cord strung
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