'A Special Haircut' by Glo Curl

The stench of ammonia hits her nostrils squarely as she enters the salon. A trainee is sweeping the floor methodically, accumulating redundant locks into a neat pile, but stops and asks if she would like a coffee while she waits. It’s too strong for her taste but she ignores the bitterness as she thumbs casually through the booklet of hairstyles. Occasionally she glances at the older lady sitting in the corner, head covered in foil wraps, engrossed in a copy of Vogue.

Outside the light dims as though a blanket had been thrown across the sun; then a roll of thunder. A splat of rain lands heavily on the salon window, then another and another. A summer storm, and she is in T-shirt and shorts. She hears the lady in the foils mutter in complaint and the trainee respond that brollies and rain hats are available.

She puts down the catalogue and turns to watch the people outside scurrying past, faces almost parallel with the streaming pavement, some holding bags or newspapers over their heads. She smiles to herself; it will be over by the time her stylist has tidied up her unruly waves. And if it isn't, she’ll relish every cool raindrop on her pale skin, savour each energy-packed lightning flash and glorious distant rumble of thunder. Her hair is growing well again and life is for living.