Free Making Marion by Beth Moran Page A

and put down her scissors. The women in the queue held their breath as she picked up a gilt-edged mirror and handed it to her customer. Catherine gasped, turning her head this way and that. She said a word that was not at all pure. A tear ran down the side of her nose, which now appeared a good inch smaller thanks to the way her stylish new cut framed her face. The woman who handed over a ten-pound note in stunned silence had been transformed into someone who looked ten years younger and twice as gorgeous. Were they magic scissors?
    The next person in the queue leapt up into the chair.
    â€œGood morning, Beatrice.” Ada started snipping immediately. “Where’s that lovely man of yours today? Not having a cut?”
    â€œOh, he’s fine. But the test match is on; he’s glued to the radio.”
    â€œWell, he does love his cricket. Did I ever tell you about the time I toured Australia with the women’s England cricket team? Oh, they were marvellous days…”
    And off she went. Twelve customers took their place in Ada’s chair that afternoon with windswept, tatty, tired hairstyles. Each of them left looking and feeling like a different woman. They strutted back down the path swinging their hips and glancing from side toside, just dying to be ogled. Ada accompanied each cut with a story more fantastical than the one before. We rescued tigers in India, intercepted enemy signals in the Cold War, kissed a rock star in the Vatican and delivered a baby in an igloo. I had no idea if any of the stories were true, but how I hoped they were. And how I longed for a tiny speck of Ada’s spirit, and the magic touch of those scissors.
    When the last customer, a teenage girl who sat down in the chair a wallflower and got up a calla lily, had left, Ada pointed her finger at me. She called out: “You haven’t had your hair cut in – hmm – two years at least?”
    I had my hair, as always, scraped back in a ponytail. I said nothing, but nodded my head. Two years. Try doubling that and adding on a bit more.
    â€œAnd even then you cut it yourself, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes.” She couldn’t hear my feeble squeak, but didn’t need to.
    â€œWell, come on then!” She beckoned me over. I really wanted to sit in the lavender chair and have my hair cut. I longed to be able to stride across the campsite swishing my fabulous new hairdo, seeing the look of approval in Scarlett’s eyes. But I shook my head as I got up off the bench and opened the reception door.
    â€œSorry, but I have to get back to work. Maybe another time?”
    Ada squinted at me across the car park. “All right, then. Scarlett will have you ready for me soon enough.”
    I slunk behind the reception counter, trying not to watch as Ada and May tidied their things back inside the van. May had seen just as many customers as her sister, and each had left the Lavender Mobile Beauty Parlour glowing, but she had said nothing for the entire afternoon. Worse than that, her pursed sour-lemon lips and furrowed brow spoke disapproval and discontent just as loudly as Ada’s stories shouted life and love. Now, packed away, she walked across to reception.
    Looking me up and down, May almost stepped back, as if my frumpiness was contagious. She was rail thin, with severe short hair that I imagined suited her personality as well as it did her bony,jutting cheekbones. She was probably once identical to her sister, but while Ada’s laughter lines were the story-map of a life lived with joy and wonder, May’s scrunched-up, wrinkly face testified to years of bitter resentment. Like Ada, she wore a 1950s-style purple spotty dress, but on her it seemed stiff and old fashioned. I tucked my ragged, soil-encrusted nails under the countertop.
    â€œUsually we are provided with iced water.” May could have dipped that cold tongue into a boiling hot kettle and the water would have frozen