Free Significance by Jo Mazelis

according to the instructions on the packet she was not meant to do anything else to this neon tangerine mess until at least twenty - four hours had passed. Not only that but when she inspected her hair with the help of two mirrors, she saw that the colour was patchy. She rang the college and cited gastric flu as the reason for her absence. Then rang a hairdresser to confess her sin and book an appointment for the next day.
    â€˜Oh dear,’ was what the hairdresser said, after Lucy took the head scarf off her ridiculous hair.
    But after a great deal of work on the hairdresser’s part, and a great deal of money and patience on Lucy’s, she was transformed into an ash blonde.
    The hair colour, the trip to France and the new clothes she had bought were all part of a plan for a transformed identity. She had, it seemed to her, spent far too many years in her mid - twenties trying to look older and thus more serious and intelligent.
    Thom seemed to take her for granted. People had begun to assume that she was older than she was, they read her age not so much from her as yet unlined and youthful face, but from other signifiers – for example her partner’s age, Thom was twelve years older than her and his black hair was silvery at the temples. She wore her own brown hair in a middle parting and generally tied back in a pony tail. She wore dark earth colours enlivened with the occasional raspberry or emerald sweater.
    She had tired of it and like many people nearing the age of thirty she suddenly yearned for youth again.
    She had deliberately timed the image change to coincide with the holiday. Thom would not see her new hairstyle for at least two weeks. Her family would have to wait until Christmas. And indeed none of them might see it at all. She may, having tried the new colour out in France, decide to dye it brown again on her return.
    She had already noticed that men paid her more attention, but was ambiguous about how that made her feel. Maybe this blonde hair, these girlish frocks gave off signals of sexual availability. That the cliché was true was surprising to her.
    Perhaps she had been too effective in stripping away not only the melanin in her hair, but also her old defences. For the first time in her life she felt too visible. The plus side was a sense of a power, the minus side was vulnerability.
    The night she followed Scott, she had been driven in part by an excess of energy. The same energy that had inspired her to dye her hair. She felt almost breathless, hollowed out, hungry and lonely. She should have recognised the symptoms. But the last time she’d felt like this had been when she was a first - year art student in Glasgow.
    Cigarette. What she needed was a couple more smokes and maybe a brandy. Then back at the hotel she’d order some hot chocolate. Go to bed, read one of the books she’d brought with her. One of those books that was too large to put in the silly little bag she’d bought to go with her daisy print frock.
    A book is a fine defence against so much.
    Tomorrow she’d rethink it all. Redefine her tactics. Try not to think about the Canadian guy. Try also not to focus so much negative attention on Thom. It was a waste of emotional energy.
    A man veered in closer as they passed each other on the pavement. He came at her in drunken loping crab - like steps. He was tall, dark and handsome with a long soulful face, black piercing eyes. When he was almost near enough to touch her, he lunged closer and made a wet sucking kiss noise. She felt his breath, hot, moist and heavily laced with alcohol on her cheek, the side of her neck, and ducked out of his grasp. It happened very quickly. His friends were just behind him; they laughed as they saw her frightened response. He was never going to actually touch her. It was all just fun.
    Oh yeah, fun.
    Which blondes have more of.
    Fun, which Scott had sneered at in their conversation earlier.
    Cigarette.
    Embarrassed and