Free A History of Forgetting by Caroline Adderson Page B

he disapproved of, their grammar, and their clothes. As individuals, however, he was actually fond of one or two. Thi, for example, the manager. She charmed everyone and, apart from the silver knuckles of rings on her every finger, didn’t look half so vicious. Even her tattoo he liked, a delicate Celtic interlace around her ankle, as if she had dipped her little foot in the Book of Kells. Jamie had a tattoo, too, and ponytail—a nosegay of bright red curls. He was less a favourite though. He liked to work out, he told Malcolm. ‘Work what out?’ Malcolm had asked, though he only had to look at Jamie’s Popeye forearms to know, his tattoos spiral bracelets of song lyrics. Malcolm, who read compulsively, picked out several alarming phrases about rape and hate. Also: I think I’m dumb . . .Well, he said it first.
    For the first eight months they had a languid, metallic- headed apprentice named Donna. ‘So you lived in Paris,’ she said, snapping gum through her brown lipstick and smirking as if she did not believe it. ‘Attitude’ was Donna’s affliction. It did not hold her back. They made a stylist out of her.
    A new girl came, Alison, who in one hour did what took Donna all day to do. When Alison was seen sitting down on the job, it was because she was on her break. She spent it in the corner, watching everyone work. Over and over that first day Malcolm heard her say, ‘I have so much to learn.’
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    From across the street, they looked almost imposing—marble columns rising between the deli and the Shopper’s Drug Mart. Alison had no idea what the Latin meant, or that the stone wasn’t real; she simply marvelled that her placement had brought her to this temple.
    She crossed over then stood a moment looking in; the whole front of the salon between the columns was glass. A beautiful child looked up from behind the desk as Alison entered and asked in an adult voice if she had an appointment.
    â€˜I’m the new apprentice,’ Alison told her.
    â€˜I forgot it was today!’ She laid a chiding hand against her cheek, her thumb and every finger reinforced with a silver ring. ‘We’ve been unbelievably busy. Come in. Come in.’
    Not a child, then. When she stood, Alison saw a grown woman in miniature. She looked straight down on the perfect blue-white path of her parting, two blue-black fields of hair on either side. ‘It’s Ali, right?’ she asked as she led Alison through another pair of columns to a gallery where three stylists were working.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I’m Thi, the manager, and this is Donna.’ Thi stopped beside one of the stylists who, pausing in her work, smiled at Alison, though not exactly in a friendly way. She wore a helmet of platinum hair, chin-length, cut at angles. ‘Oh, Ali.’ She stressed the first syllable—Aa!—the same sound she’d make if she found a hair in her soup. ‘Shucks. A-lee, we thought. We were expecting a big black bruiser.’
    Thi kept her moving along. Between each station, a half-column rose from counter to ceiling and a different bust stood, each with eyes rolled back showing whites. On the far wall, trompe l’ o eil windows looked out on an idealized garden where nudes of both sexes posed.
    They passed a bust in a matted wig and sunglasses. ‘Christian works at that station. He’ll be late. Here’s Robert. Robert, Ali.’
    Roxanne was the stylist with the nose ring at the sinks shampooing her client. ‘I love your hair,’ said Alison. Roxanne’s was the most hair Alison had ever seen on one person at one time, a great tendrilling mass of brown. It seemed impossible that she could support a whole head of it on such a thin neck.
    â€˜And Malcolm’s in the back,’ said Thi. ‘I’ll show you the back room, Ali.’
    â€˜Don’t leave her alone with him,’ Roxanne teased. ‘He