Free Face Value by Kathleen Baird-Murray Page B

Kate’s scalp that the pile of publicity clippings tumbled from Kate’s lap onto the floor.
    “Can I?” Kate tried to bend down to pick up the papers, a difficult maneuver as her hair was being pulled by Lolly as if she was a Barbie with extendable tresses.
    “Not yet,” barked Lolly, holding the comb Chiara had rushed to get her between her teeth, while gazing in a trance at the two-inch strand of hair she was holding between her fingers. “Just finishing off this section here.”
    The salon was surprisingly low-key, though incredibly high-key in comparison with Yolanda’s model night in Maidstone. Everywhere you looked there were trim, youthful apprentices dressed in black, bustling around in an ordered fashion like ants in a disturbed nest. Each booth was separated from the others by mirrored side panels, all the better to see what was going on at the back and sides of your hair. It also afforded some privacy for the more famous of Lolly’s clientele, not that it had escaped Kate’s notice that she had Sharon Stone sitting on one side and Meg Ryan on the other. (She wasn’t interested, but Lise would go nuts.)
    “You know, I always wondered,” said Lolly, still staring fixedly at the uneven edges of hair she had just slashed. “I mean, it’s so dull, all this fucking celebrity bullshit. I mean, people always ask me, what hair did you do for the fucking Oscars, and I always say, oh you know, yadda, yadda, yadda, boring, clean, straight, whatever, blah, blah, blah, natural crap !” She looked at herself in the mirror.
    “Do they quote you on that?” Kate ventured timidly.
    Lolly ignored her and continued. “And I long for a return to the age when Hollywood was fucking glamorous, y’know? Big hairstyles, pointy tits, uppity butts, slinky satin dresses. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, women were fucking gorgeous then! Why don’t you do something on that?”
    “Well, it’s a surgery supplement, it’s not really about the Oscars or the hair, or the dresses, but I take your point, it was a very glamorous period.”
    Lolly talked straight over her. “Because they all had surgery then, y’know. Kinda in a backstreet way, no one knew, and some of the doctors weren’t so fucking great, but they had to get it done. The studios demanded it.”
    This was getting interesting.
    "Go to L.A. Go to Hollywood. You’ll find something cool there. Something different. I mean, it would be nice to get something fucking different, don’tcha think?” Lolly stopped, stared at herself in the mirror, her stare changing to an angry glare, then hollered, “Chiara! . . . Where is that fucking girl?! Chiara!”
    Chiara reappeared, a pale creature so skinny her flesh bore an ethereal translucence.
    “Honey, don’t let me look like this! Check out my hair!”
    It looked fine to Kate, who was more worried about the clumps of hair that had been plundered from her own head with all the brutality of a pair of gardening shears snipping off Rapunzel’s plait. Chiara dutifully flapped around Lolly with a tube of smoothing cream until the alleged ruffle was placated. Lolly rocked from hip to hip in front of the mirror, sucking her cheeks in, then shook her hair again.
    “Chiara! Still not fucking right.”
    “Well, you shook it. . . .” Chiara ventured. Lolly picked up the hair dryer and brandished it at her as if it was a gun.
    “Don’t argue, sweetness, just fix it. Or be fixed.”
    Chiara frantically glooped on more of the cream. Lolly looked at herself again in the mirror, then said, as if surprised to see Kate still there, “You’re done, honey. I hope we’ll see you soon. Bye!” Chiara swooped in with her blow-dryer to finish off Kate’s hair, and the star of the show moved on to her next celebrity.
    Mad as the woman clearly was, Kate knew it was a great idea. The history of surgery in Hollywood. She would get back to the office and start researching straightaway. Marilyn Monroe must have had some. And if she had, they all