Free The Wish List by Eoin Colfer

none too soon.”
    Meg was whisked into a space-age chrome chair, and various beautifying machines were arranged around her head. Some she recognized: dryers, highlight lamps, and electrolysis lasers. But others looked like they came straight off the bridge of the Starship Enterprise .
    â€œIs this going to be noisy?” she asked nervously.
    Assistant number one twittered delightedly. “No, no. These are the very latest, all stealth-muffled for the patrons’ comfort.”
    Meg nodded. “Good. Because I don’t want to wake me up.”
    By lunchtime, Lowrie McCall had been plucked, shaved, moisturized, exfoliated, manicured, pedicured, trimmed, colored (burnished autumn, six-wash fade-out) and wrapped. All without rousing him from his slumber. Every time his consciousness twitched, Meg would simply tell it to go back to sleep. Gently, of course, without the usual rudeness she generally used with adults. The old man was only allowed to surface to sign the credit-card slip. And then only partially. Poor old Lowrie thought he was dreaming about winning the lottery.
    The transformation was phenomenal. Even Natalie was impressed. “If it wasn’t for the clothing, you could almost think sir was a native Dubliner.” The highest compliment any Dubliner could pay to a country bumpkin.
    Right, next stop. New outfit. Time to introduce this old fossil to the twenty-first century.
    The Stephen’s Green Center had always been Mam’s favorite, so Meg dragged Lowrie’s old legs along the length of Grafton Street and up to the second floor of the mall. She picked the shop with the loudest music pumping through the doors, and went in. Techno dance beats enveloped her immediately, inside her head—or McCall’s head to be precise. Lowrie’s mind stirred irritably in its sleep.
    Hush there now, off you go, no need to wake up just yet .
    A flat-headed nose-ringer slimed over to guide the old guy to the denture shop. “You’re in the wrong place, pops. This is a clothes shop. For people less than a hundred.”
    Meg took this personally—after all, she was in the insulted body at the time. “Pops?”
    Nose-ring swallowed, suddenly nervous. “Well, you know, you being an oldish gent and all.”
    Meg opened Lowrie’s mouth to respond, and then found she couldn’t. That creepy idiot was right. Maybe she belonged here, but Lowrie certainly didn’t. You wouldn’t put the president or one of those other ancient fellows in combat boots and a bomber jacket. Older people had their own fashions from the days before PlayStations. Sad looking, but they were happy.
    Meg speared nose-ring with a haughty glare. “I was considering purchasing a gift for my . . . great-great-granddaughter, but now I shall take my big roll of cash somewhere else.”
    Meg stormed out, delighted with the long words she’d used, and with the look on the guy’s face. Three doors down there was a place called Townsend’s & Sons. Heaps of nonfashion in the window. Ties and everything. One of the plastic dummies even had a top hat on him. Oh, this was definitely the place for Mister Has-Been McCall.
    She pushed in the door hesitantly, still thinking of herself as a young girl, who’d been hunted out of a dozen similar establishments in her short lifetime. A group of snobby-looking chaps were flitting around with measuring tapes hanging around their necks. None of them looked young enough to be the sons in Townsend’s & Sons.
    One strolled over. He had bits of chalk sticking out of his shirt pocket, and a droopy moustache like Yosemite Sam.
    â€œSir?” he said, really cool, as if to say, Can I help you, sir? was too much effort.
    Meg squinted. How should she put this? Be confident, she told herself. Like you belong here.
    â€œRighto . . . ah . . . shop servant. I’ve had my head done by Natalie. Now I want a few decent things to wear. A suit or