“What is difference between this, this, and this?” She returns the tube to the shelf and gestures to each product: the enormous litre-sized shampoo and conditioner bottles, the small deep-conditioning tubes, and the skinny daily leave-in conditioner tubes.
“It really depends on what you prefer.”
She pauses to open and sniff a new bottle of Damage Protect. “Which one is best? I am washing hair every day.”
“Right,” I nod. I take the tube of Damage Protect and hand it to her. “This one you can use after you wash.”
“Why not this Dry Fix?” she asks, pointing to the blue coloured product line on a shelf beside the Damage line.
“Well, the Damage line is made specifically for damaged hair. Moisture’s good, but you definitely want protein back in your hair. Though if you like you can try the Dry Fix line, but if your hair is damaged, the Damage line is what you should try.” I roll back on the ball of my foot.
“But which one is best for long hair?” asks the woman.
“Trust me,” I say slowly, “this line.” I hand her a tube of Damage Protect.
The woman blinks at the shelf tag. “Hmm, $27, huh? Hmm, ok. That’s what I’ll try.” The woman fumbles in her purse and strides to the front. As things jingle in her bag, I stride faster than her to the desk, round the bend, to my computer. I punch my name in. I look up for the tube as she drops it in her purse.
“Um, could I just get that to scan it in?” I ask.
“What?”
“I need to scan it in for inventory reasons and to give you the correct price?”
The woman sighs. She slaps a $20 and a $10 on the counter, rolls her eyes and walks out of the store.
“...Receipt?” I ask the empty shop. I zip to the hair shelf, take a new Damage Protect, scan it, and punch a sale into the computer.
“What just happened? That woman looked upset.” speaks a voice to my left.
Lulu walks out from the salon, running an absentminded hand through a thick, shiny, frizz-free length of dark brown hair.
I look at the glass doors through which the woman exited. “I think she didn’t understand English too well. But it’s okay because I borrowed one from the shelf and scanned it in.” I shrug.
“You can’t do that! You should have scanned the one the woman had!” snaps Lulu. The crystal beads of her long Swarovski necklace click and glitter against her hair as she shakes her head.
“Well, I asked her and she didn’t understand. I’m not going to wrestle a customer away from her purse.” I smile at the image, then frown.
“No! You don’t understand! Now there will be two products missing, one you scanned and one in her purse! The boss will be really upset.”
“But Lulu, she just dropped it in her bag and paid more than enough for it. The barcodes on the products are the same...” I hesitate as Lulu draws in a sharp inward breath.
“Doesn’t matter! The numbers matter and the numbers will be different! Product to product, the code is different!”
I take a look at the identical barcodes again. I take a sly glance at the time on my computer. I look back at Lulu and nod slowly. “Okay. You’re right. I understand. I’ll let Gina know about it and we’ll sort it out,” I say as calmly as I can muster.
“Thank you,” sighs Lulu.
I nod slowly. I keep my shoulders slouched and keep eyes down at my computer keyboard.
David, my fellow receptionist, walks out from the salon. He wipes his wire glasses on his black sweater and pulls ear-length brown hair away from his eyes to put the glasses on his nose.
“Okay,” he says.
“Bathroom’s all clean. Olive, did you plan on eating today?”
I tug a black sleeve off my wrist and peer at my watch. “Oh wow!” I exclaim. “I better go for lunch before it’s three.”
Lulu smiles and shuts her eyes as she gives me a quick nod.
I walk to the skin shelf, and straighten the masque tubes into a straight line. I open a drawer beneath them and retrieve my shoulder bag. I walk to the door and spy my reflection in my peripheral vision. I turn to the mirror and frown at a strand of my bangs, sticking straight up. Smoothing it down, I walk out of the shop.
I return from lunch and punch in at my computer. Beside me, Joseph the curly haired Filipino from the Geek Squad taps at David’s computer. David rubs a rag under the products on the men’s shelf.
“You have a phone in your pocket!” hisses a voice. Gina stands beside me, looking up with haggard, daggered eyes.
“I don’t use it on my shift. I only keep it on me for emergencies,” I reply, trembling. I look at David and to Joseph, whose faces remain focused on their own tasks.
“For an emergency, we already have a phone!” Gina roars and points her dark eyes at the phone on the desk, between the working computer and the one Joseph has opened up. The rubber of the curly wire starts an inch away from the jack. Red and green wires peek out between the receiver jack and the curls.
“Well, in case I’m away from this one?”
David walks toward the salon with the broom and pan, muttering something about sweeping the floor there.
Gina’s face pinches and she shakes her head. Not a hair on her dark Anna Wintour bob flutters out of place. “If you have one on you, everyone else will think it’s okay to have one on them. I’m not changing my policy.”
I think about Lulu texting her new boyfriend between colourings. I think of Masha calling home to check up on her son’s ear infection and fever between haircuts. I think of Ina using the timer on her phone to time massages. I look at the phone on the desk and nod. “Okay,” I say softly.
“I have to go to the bank,” Gina declares and stomps out of the shop.
I stare out of the shop, over the bench, out of the pharmacy and through the glass doors at the falling clumps of snow.
I imagine building a snowman, throwing snowballs at the passing cars. I imagine building a snow maiden, like the Russian legend. In the legend, a childless couple build a little snow girl. To their utter joy, the snow comes alive and a real little girl appears. They name her “Snegourka”. Snegourka laughs, shakes the snow out of her golden curls, and embraces the parents that formed her in the snow. I imagine playing in the snow with her. Snegourka wears a dove-grey dress. She wears dark green stockings tucked into beaded suede boots. Snegourka laughs from a fat belly. Cheeks rosy, she takes my hand and pulls me gently forward. She pats a hip pocket in her dress skirt where a bit of yellow paper sticks out. “Don’t forget that you need your soul!” she warns. I feel sad, knowing that with the spring, Snegourka will vanish with the snow. I squeeze her chubby hand. “Come now, Olivia, the winter will not last forever! Let us frolic!” Her blue eyes sparkle in the winter sun. I nod and smirk. I bend down and pick up a clump of snow. I pack it tightly in my hands and aim for a big white truck.
“BRIIIIING!” the phone rings. Snegourka and the snowflakes dissolve into buzzing overhead lights. I push the corners of my mouth up into a smile.
Friday evening
I glance at the time on the computer screen taskbar. 7:00, it reads.
Kelly Strong smiles as she enters the store. Her wide eyes seem to search and drink everything.
“Kelly!” I chirp. “How are you tonight?” I step out from behind the counter and walk up to her.
Kelly stands at about five foot eight. Her deep black pixie hair shines under the store lights.
“Oh, actually.” Kelly clasps her hands together, bows slightly above me and her eyes somehow widen farther.
“Could I just grab something to eat? I haven’t had my dinner. I won’t be five minutes.”
“Sure! I’ll let Lulu know.” I gush. Kelly passes me and walks to my left. She enters the coat closet, and places her large black bag in a cubby hook. I continue to smile as she unzips her bag. She takes out a wallet, zips the purse up, and takes a black wallet out. “See you in ten minutes!” Kelly grins, waves at Lulu in the salon, and strolls past me to the gl
ass store doors.
Once her back disappears, I drop my smile, bite a lip, and dash to my computer. I mouse over Kelly’s name. A small square appears above the schedule. Strong, Kelly. 6:45. Appointment: Col/Touch up: Length: 0.30m.
I rub fingers in front of my ears and open my jaw. I heave a sigh.
I tap at the keyboard and select the next day’s appointments to print. I check the time of the first appointment: Gina has a client getting full highlights and a haircut at 9 a.m. At least no one will have enough free time to yell at me for having coffee at the front. My stomach growls. I sit on my haunches and switch on the printer.
Fifteen minutes later, Kelly returns to the store, with her perpetual smile and a steaming paper plate of wings and noodles.
“Just going to the bathroom real quick, Lulu!” she calls out as she walks into the salon.
Friday night
I pause outside the subway doors. I tap the messenger icon and Trevor’s name. “Wow. Customer tonight took more than 1h longer than she needed to. I’m just leaving now. How goes editing? Kisses.”
I shove the subway doors open and march to the turnstiles. I swipe my pass through, thunder down a flight of stairs, and zip onto an eastbound train just as the doors chime and slide shut.
I plunk butt and bag on two seats. I rest my head against a window and watch the hanging white tunnel lights flash by. “Jane” slides past the windows. Darkness. “Runnymede” slides past. “Arriving at Runnymede. Runnymede Station,” announces the automated woman’s voice over the train speakers.
My head falls forward slightly. “The next station is...
I stare at the deep black platform through the window. A black-haired man in a sheepskin shirt sprints towards my train car. A suede side bag flaps at one hip. The leather jacket flaps open with the motion of his running to reveal the sandalwood grip of a long revolver hanging from the other hip. Behind him follows a pale thin old man in black; a cape spreads out behind him like an extension of the satisfied sneer on his grey lips. The square light flashes above the door and the gunslinger leaps into the car just as the door shuts. He lands on his feet. He turns faded blue eyes to me and bellows: “Mission two: Stay awake!”
I manage a “Thankee, Sai” as the man leaps again towards the other side of the car. He turns to me and speaks soft and low. “Remember, when you kill, kill with your heart.” He passes through the closed door on the other side as though he passed through rain. The man in black, still on the platform, slams fists at the closed doors on my right.
I shudder awake and look out windows on either side. I see an empty mint-green platform on one side and dark tracks on the other.
More Friday night
In my room, I lie on my back and watch the red and blue flashing lights on the branches outside my window. I shut my eyes and breathe deeply, but my heart won’t stop pounding. Lulu’s tirade echoes and bounces around my skull. Flashes of the next product line the boss wants me to study flicker in my vision. I try to remember if I’ve printed the missing information forms for tomorrow’s customers. I try to remember if I—. No, can’t care now. I turn on my side and curl up in a ball around my pillow.
Go to sleep, I tell my head. The neighbour who lives in the bedroom above me creaks on the floor.
The steps become heavier and bounce directly above my head. My groan grows into a growl.
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” I reach for the foam earplugs under my pillow.
Saturday evening
Trevor and I sit in my bed and watch an episode of Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace on my laptop.
The blonde waif Dr. Liz inquires about the chicken special for lunch that day at the hospital. The hospital chef stomps over to Liz, elbows her tray full of food to the ground. “It’s women like you that are to blame for today’s late lunch!” He spits and stomps back to the kitchen.
“I deserved that,” Liz sniffles as she crouches to put the mess back on her tray.
Dr. Dagless tells Liz to cheer up and bring the chicken to his office whenever it’s ready. Dagless’s boss, the cigar-chewing Reed, keeps Liz in the office while Dagless and his friend Dr. Sanchez search for clues to the episode’s mystery. Reed complains about being stuck with a moody woman and a light bulb explodes. Reed naturally asks Liz to replace it.
The camera zooms to Liz’s pinched lips, then to her wide, blue-lined eye. For the rest of the episode, the Darkplace hospital staff fend off her army of flying papers, cutlery, and garbage bins with kung fu, shotguns, and slow-motion running.
Before the credits, Liz thanks Dr. Sanchez for a lobotomy. She bends over to retrieve a basket full of freshly baked buns. A guitar squeals, and the triumphant rock theme repeats on electronic keyboards. Voices chant “Darkplace, darkplace” and the camera zooms away from a prop hospital.
“Another?” I ask Trevor, clicking open my downloads folder.
“Sure,” he replies. I gaze at his face, shaded by a favourite yellow hoodie.
“You want in?” I ask, lifting the sleeping bag I’ve wrapped around myself.
“I’m fine.” He tugs slightly at the hood at his forehead.
I start the next episode and draw the blanket tighter about myself. A wave of exhaustion crests from my back to my shoulders up to my eyes and I lay my head on my knees.
“I’m suddenly so tired. I think those antihistamines are kicking in,” I mumble from my knees.
“If you need to lie down, hon, lie down,” Trevor murmurs.
“I wish I weren’t so tired,” I sigh.
“You need your sleep. Go to sleep. It’s okay.” His voice soothes me.
I lie down in a tight fetal curl beside him. He presses a hand into my lower back. He rubs up to my shoulders, up and down. Warm dark waves of sleep flow above and through me. Deeper and deeper I fall —
I hear the Darkplace theme again and Trevor’s voice above me. “Hon, I’m heading out.”
I groan and reach towards him in the fading light.
He leans in and kisses me soundly. I press up into his soft lips. I reach for his face and run my fingers though his hair. Since he quit smoking, he tastes less like Canadian Classics and more like the beeswax in his lip balm. I trace the shell of his ear with a finger. “I’ve turned the heat up a little. Sleep tight,” he murmurs. He adjusts a second blanket over me and kisses my forehead. My eyes fall shut. I hear him say hello to my housemate Heather. “Nice to see you, as always,” I hear Heather’s voice say. Dark grey sleep waves rush and roar through my body again.
Saturday night
I hear creaks above me. I groan and stare at the ceiling. The creaks grow louder and closer. I take the flashlight hanging at my headboard and aim the light above me. A dusty white square of the stucco ceiling falls and clatters on my knee. A man’s shadowed face appears in the orange circle of light, framed by the new square hole.
The upstairs neighbour peeks down at me. Dust floats about his gelled blond hair. He pulls his face to the right of the hole. A woman’s face, smiling, unblinking appears in the left half of the hole.
“I haven’t had my dinner,” she begins. “I won’t be more than five minutes.” Her amber eyes pierce mine. She licks her lips.
This can’t be happening, I think. I’m dreaming. I stand on the bed. I lift one foot in the air, then the other. I stand. I hover a foot above my bed. If I can do that, I’m awake in a dream.
I shriek a war cry. In one swift motion, I pull twin iron daggers out of my knee-high socks. I send the blades through the square hole. I pull the blades back and push them through again. I roar, “I! NEED! TO! SLEEP!” I punctuate each word with both blades stabbing.
I pick the fallen stucco and replace it. Tie-dye peach and coral lines circle the white square. The square falls on my head. It pushes down heavily. I fall through several feet of crisp cool air.
I gasp and touch the bed with my arms. I fumble for my phone. I double-take at the time glowing in the blackness: 10:13 p.m.
I text Trevor: “I wish I were up
to enjoy time with you but thanks for making me rest. Xx”
I stumble into the kitchen and fill the kettle. I press the switch to “ON”. I smile groggily at the back of a bun of red hair. Heather turns and nods at me. She stirs a steaming wok filled with pasta shells, pumpkin shavings, potatoes, and chicken.
“Smells amazing,” I tell her.
“Good nap?” she asks.
I nod. “So good, I think I’ll have another. But first, something to drink. I just can’t stop... I’m so thirsty these days.”
“The solution to pollution is dilution,” declares Heather. She adjusts a knob above the stove.
The kettle switches off. I shake in a packet of green tea and stir the mug’s contents.
My pocket buzzes. I whip the phone out and thumb in the password.
“You snore like an angel. Xox”
I smile, test a sip, and take my tea to the crisp grey coolness of my room.
Eman
Carine Abouseif
January 2003
I swing my feet off the blue-and-white-cushioned lawn chair. My mom only puts out the blue and white cushions when we have fancy guests over. The smell of smoky, charred beef swirls around the garden. My dad stands at the end of the garden nudging strips of beef, honey-marinated drumsticks, and halloumi cheese on the shiny, new grill. Next to him, his coworker Eman rests a hand on her hip and wields a glass of red wine between her pinky and ring fingers. She pulls the glass towards her, takes a sip, and flips a halo of charcoal curls out of her inky-eye-shadow-caked eyes.
On the other side of the garden, my sister Nadine and Eman’s daughter swing matching, multi-coloured hula hoops around their hips. I’ve never been able to hula-hoop.
Eman’s husband sits opposite me in another blue-and-white-cushioned lawn chair with his back to the grill. His thick eyebrows meet midway across his forehead. His furry knuckles extend to a full glass of wine on the glass garden table. He taps the surface to the rhythm of Andrea Bocelli’s “Con te partirò” drifting through the open front door of the house.
“So, what grade are you in?” he asks.
“Grade six,” I mumble.
Behind him, Eman places her empty wine glass on the top ledge of the grill and laughs.