That catchphrase,
blonde fury
, wasn’t widely used yet—or not that I knew. This was the first time I saw it.
The previous evening, at six o’clock, in an upscale Midtown hair salon called Humble & Tumble, a client had brutally attacked her stylist. Halfway through a bleaching session, the stylist had been blinded with his own chemical potion. Three other hairdressers rushed to subdue the client, who grabbed a hot flatiron, yanked it from the wall, and began beating them with it. One stylist was rendered unconscious by a forceful blow with a hairdryer. Police arrived after the stylists and their other clients had hastily left the premises. The attacker was easy to identify by her erratic behaviour and the purple vinyl smock still fastened around her neck. In apprehending her, one of the officers sustained minor cuts and lacerations. Two stylists were treated for minor burns and released, but the main victim was still in critical condition with chemical burns to his face and eyes.
So now it was blondes, plural.
My eyes raced to the top of the page, where the day’s date was printed. I walked out of the DeWitt Wallace Periodical Room, down the hallway, and outside as fast as I could without making Security nervous. On the steps, under the disapproving gaze of a stone lion, I fished my cellphone out of my bag. I had already missed two calls from an unknown number.
The first message was from Dr. Wanda Kovacs. We had arranged to meet several times already, but she always cancelled at the last minute via email—something that needled me. She was a busy woman, and one of the few contacts Karl had given me when I told him my plan to apply for funding to go to New York. All he had said about her was “An amazing woman.” The rest I’d had to research on my own.
Kovacs possessed a BA in Cultural Studies from Trent University, an MA in Psychology from Cornell, a PhD in Semiotics from Brown, and apparently a soft spot for Karl and for Canadians. Although I was frustrated with the number of times she’d managed to cancel or delay our meetings since my arrival, I’d had no recourse but to persevere. Her tone in emails was always tepid. She was doing me a favour and I was highly aware of it. And now, in an unforgivable fog, I had been the one to miss our appointment entirely. I had believed it was the following day. I’d lost a day, I guess, when I found out about you. Or lost it somewhere between the discovery of you and the subway accident. Or maybe it was a psychological block on my part. I mean, looking back I have to ask myself: How had I gone to the library to work on my thesis on theexact day I was supposed to meet the one contact I had in the city
for
my thesis? There’s a name for this kind of slip. I’m sure of it. Freud coined it.
Parapraxis
, that’s it. The rest of us call it a major fuck-up.
Kovacs’s second message said she was sorry but she was leaving her office. It was nearly one in the afternoon and she’d been expecting me for an hour and a half. I quickly dialled the number she’d left.
“Doc–tor Kovacs,” she intoned. Academics who referred to themselves as “Doctor” when they weren’t in the classroom made me stutter. And this one drew out the word longer than necessary as if to emphasize her station.
I panted out apologies. “Dr. Kovacs, I’m—I’m so sorry.”
To my surprise she responded, “That’s all right, dear.” I could hear her voice softening with effort, the “dear” tacked on stiffly but not unkindly. “What’s happened?”
To my even greater surprise, I realized that my rib cage felt too tight for my lungs. Her answer had been a response to the fact that I was crying.
“Oh gosh,” I blubbered, sounding for a moment like my mother, “the subway attack yesterday, the woman and the girl—Eugenia. Have you read about it?”
“I saw it on the news,” Dr. Kovacs replied warily.
“I was there.”
“I see.”
There was another pause. I remember thinking
blonde fury
, wasn’t widely used yet—or not that I knew. This was the first time I saw it.
The previous evening, at six o’clock, in an upscale Midtown hair salon called Humble & Tumble, a client had brutally attacked her stylist. Halfway through a bleaching session, the stylist had been blinded with his own chemical potion. Three other hairdressers rushed to subdue the client, who grabbed a hot flatiron, yanked it from the wall, and began beating them with it. One stylist was rendered unconscious by a forceful blow with a hairdryer. Police arrived after the stylists and their other clients had hastily left the premises. The attacker was easy to identify by her erratic behaviour and the purple vinyl smock still fastened around her neck. In apprehending her, one of the officers sustained minor cuts and lacerations. Two stylists were treated for minor burns and released, but the main victim was still in critical condition with chemical burns to his face and eyes.
So now it was blondes, plural.
My eyes raced to the top of the page, where the day’s date was printed. I walked out of the DeWitt Wallace Periodical Room, down the hallway, and outside as fast as I could without making Security nervous. On the steps, under the disapproving gaze of a stone lion, I fished my cellphone out of my bag. I had already missed two calls from an unknown number.
The first message was from Dr. Wanda Kovacs. We had arranged to meet several times already, but she always cancelled at the last minute via email—something that needled me. She was a busy woman, and one of the few contacts Karl had given me when I told him my plan to apply for funding to go to New York. All he had said about her was “An amazing woman.” The rest I’d had to research on my own.
Kovacs possessed a BA in Cultural Studies from Trent University, an MA in Psychology from Cornell, a PhD in Semiotics from Brown, and apparently a soft spot for Karl and for Canadians. Although I was frustrated with the number of times she’d managed to cancel or delay our meetings since my arrival, I’d had no recourse but to persevere. Her tone in emails was always tepid. She was doing me a favour and I was highly aware of it. And now, in an unforgivable fog, I had been the one to miss our appointment entirely. I had believed it was the following day. I’d lost a day, I guess, when I found out about you. Or lost it somewhere between the discovery of you and the subway accident. Or maybe it was a psychological block on my part. I mean, looking back I have to ask myself: How had I gone to the library to work on my thesis on theexact day I was supposed to meet the one contact I had in the city
for
my thesis? There’s a name for this kind of slip. I’m sure of it. Freud coined it.
Parapraxis
, that’s it. The rest of us call it a major fuck-up.
Kovacs’s second message said she was sorry but she was leaving her office. It was nearly one in the afternoon and she’d been expecting me for an hour and a half. I quickly dialled the number she’d left.
“Doc–tor Kovacs,” she intoned. Academics who referred to themselves as “Doctor” when they weren’t in the classroom made me stutter. And this one drew out the word longer than necessary as if to emphasize her station.
I panted out apologies. “Dr. Kovacs, I’m—I’m so sorry.”
To my surprise she responded, “That’s all right, dear.” I could hear her voice softening with effort, the “dear” tacked on stiffly but not unkindly. “What’s happened?”
To my even greater surprise, I realized that my rib cage felt too tight for my lungs. Her answer had been a response to the fact that I was crying.
“Oh gosh,” I blubbered, sounding for a moment like my mother, “the subway attack yesterday, the woman and the girl—Eugenia. Have you read about it?”
“I saw it on the news,” Dr. Kovacs replied warily.
“I was there.”
“I see.”
There was another pause. I remember thinking
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