‘Gotta go,’ I said. ‘Call you later.’
‘Laters.’
Mum was mouthing What happened? at me through the door, like she couldn’t even wait to be inside before starting to interrogate me. Oh God, why couldn’t my family just give me a centimetre of space; a window of like five minutes to gather myself together before they turned everything into an episode of Eastenders?
Uncle came bustling through from the kitchen and opened the café door. ‘Ay naku, Angela, it’s all fine. No drama here. We’re just having a bite to eat. Join us if you like.’
Mum pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. Her hair needed a trim. Even though I totally remodelled her hair last year, making her ditch the two styles she’d always sported (one on the back and one on the front of her head), she never let me get at it regularly enough. It wasn’t surprising that her hair had started to make its way back into the old shmullet. I made a mental note to pin her down to a trim at some point. Get her back into that stacked bob we’d gone for. But now didn’t seem to be an appropriate moment.
Mum peered at me over her glasses while Uncle dished up pancit, for her this time. Then he went back into the kitchen, claiming to be hunting for the fish sauce again. He was giving us space. Subtle, my uncle.
‘Are you OK? Do you want to talk about it?’ said Mum.
‘Not particularly, if that’s all right with you.’
‘That’s OK. That’s just fine.’
Her mouth went into a straight line. I was sure it wasn’t OK. I was sure that Mum was desperate to talk about it – that she was really frustrated that I didn’t want to tell my side. Sure enough, five minutes into a conversation about other salons in the area who might be hiring, Mum said, ‘But of course all salons will expect you to sweep up.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I said.
‘It’s not supposed to mean anything,’ said Mum.
‘Has someone been telling you that I’m a stroppy teenager who thinks I know it all, how I have a lot to learn, how I’m unable to follow instructions, how I don’t listen, how wilful I am, how I refuse to sweep the floor from left to right downhill as you’re facing the back door because if the draft comes under the door it blows the hair all over the shop?’
‘No,’ said Mum, going a bit pink. ‘No one’s been telling me that. At all, as it happens.’
‘Hmmm.’ Like I really believed her.
‘So is that why she fired you?’
‘I said I don’t want to talk about it!’
‘I know,’ said Mum, ‘and I said that is fine, we don’t have to talk about it. Let’s not talk about it. Look – we’re not talking about it! It’s negative. Let’s concentrate on the good stuff and where you’ll go next.’
‘I don’t want to talk about that either.’
‘Sadie, you have started a Level 1 Hairdressing course. That’s one day out of school a week! We need to sort the apprenticeship or this year is a complete waste of time, not to mention you can’t enter that competition unless –’
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Mum!’
‘Well we have to think about it, even if we’re not talking about it,’ said Mum.
She cannot just let things lie, my Mum. She has to poke them and prod them.
‘OK.’
‘And we have to talk about it before Monday because Monday you have college.’
‘I know.’
Of course I knew that Monday I had college. And by Monday, everyone would be getting their entry forms for the Thames Gateway Junior Apprentice Hairdresser (or Barber) of the Year Award filled out and signed. Everyone except me, because as of an hour ago I was no longer eligible to enter.
3
The hairdresser (or barber) must complete the entry form before or on the required date stated.
Guideline 3: Thames Gateway Junior Apprentice Hairdresser (or Barber) of the Year Award
Monday morning and when I arrived at college I saw that Aimée Price was wearing green earrings that matched her green bag that matched her green-and-white spotty shoes that matched her green-tipped nails. No wonder people called her Claire’s Accessories behind her back.
She was sitting on one of the barber chairs we have in the student salon and her feet were up on another, matching shoes and all. These chairs are from Taylor Belshaw’s Nirvana range – expensive kit with funky patterned seats like I plan to have in my own salon eventually. You can bet that Aimée Price wouldn’t have a clue about quality salon chairs, judging by the way she put her feet all over them. She was also boring the pants off Florence, our lecturer.
‘Misty really reckons I’m in with a chance,’ she was saying. ‘She’s getting the senior stylist to do extra work with me to like coach me up and everything for the competition.’
Yeah. Well, Aimée was going to need all the help she could get. I knew the salon she worked in. Cissor’s Palace – Unisex Hairdresser was at the south end of Roman Road, and it was as cheesy as it sounded. All the fittings looked like they were from the 1980s or something, and not in a good, retro way, and 1985 was when the owner, the famous Misty, last changed her hairstyle, by the looks of things. The woman wears it up in a scrunchie, and I’m pretty sure she still demi-waves in there. If you ask me, for an apprenticeship, Cissor’s Palace – Unisex Hairdresser really sucks the big one.
Florence wasn’t quite so convinced either. ‘Aimée, I think if you work on your timing you could be in with a shot for the competition,’ she said. ‘But you do need to speed things up a little bit.’
Aimée Price needed to speed things up more than a little bit – I mean snails took a dump faster than Claire’s Accessories cut hair. I was waiting to hear what else Florence had to say about Aimée’s chances when she caught sight of me.
‘Oh, Sadie, have you filled out your form yet?’
‘Er . . . not yet,’ I said.
I lied. Of course I had filled it in. Of course it was sitting on the table in the lounge, ready to be signed off at the bottom by Aunt Lilah, who was the owner of the registered salon where I was doing my apprenticeship. Where I had been doing my apprenticeship. Until she fired me.
‘Well don’t forget, will you?’ Florence winked at me. ‘They have to be in soon.’
I don’t mind saying that our lecturer thinks I can cut hair. She may say that Aimée’s in with a chance if she speeds up a little, but Florence reckons I’ve got ‘real talent’. The
