Madame Clément smiled at the mirror. My face reflected in it, smiled back ‘So difficult to get an appointment with you this week!’ She touched her hair ‘I’m expecting you to work your usual magic.’ She wrinkled her face into the same expression that one gives a child when making a bargain, you eat your vegetables and then you can have ice cream! Madame Clément always tipped well.
I picked up a wide toothed comb and started to run it through her thick, golden blonde bob; not her natural colour of course; but who other than a hairdresser could tell? The bob was fashionably asymmetric with a heavy fringe that sat just on her eyebrows. Hence the urgency, the fringe length and cut had to be impeccable and the only person that she trusted with it was me. It was an essential part of her allure to tilt her head down and sideways before looking up from under her long dark eyelash extensions and the fringe. It also hid her forehead which she thought looked as if it had work done – which indeed it had as she’d previously confided. I did not count as one of those who to be convinced of her long-lived dewy youth and beauty being entirely natural. It was harder to maintain the pretence when lying flat and bedraggled with what seemed to her to be a naked face without its veil of hair.
She shook her head before I had finished combing it through and tucked a strand behind her ear ‘Well, you know what I want Cheri. Not a thing changed. I’m very happy with it.’ Another quick, sharp smile and then a glance around her ‘Where is Sylvie? I want my coffee.’ Sylvie being absent she followed me over to the sink her white cape flowing out behind her like an illustration from The Snow Queen. She continued to talk as I checked the temperature of the water and began to smooth her hair away from her face. She was lying almost flat with her feet in their immaculate white high heeled sandals stuck out over the end of the couch. Her lightly tanned shin bones were sharp under the lights. The tan was also maintained at some expense downstairs in our salon. With her head tilted back her naked and vulnerable throat curved up towards me. I could see a myriad of pale fine lines running across despite the tan and she was so thin that her pulse visibly pounded on either side.
Elegant and groomed, I could appreciate how attractive she was as a woman with money, taste and self-discipline. But there was something so deadening with the cosmetic procedures that so many women now considered essential; despite the women being dressed and coiffured to stand out the result was what seemed an endless row of identical mannequins. I did not think that a woman’s age detracted from her beauty and thought that some of the most beautiful women were those who appeared to be aging naturally. Of course it was hard to say whether they really were “au naturel” without the sort of close inspection that I had with my clients but I liked to think so. It was sad that for a woman to look her age now seemed to be a marker of poverty or neglect.
As my fingers worked in the rich, creamy shampoo with its clean scent of lemon and lavender I wondered what Madame Clément looked like last thing at night or first thing in the morning. I doubted whether anyone knew as she’d told me that she insisted that her lovers left before morning which suited them as several were themselves married. I could feel the shape of her skull under my fingers and thought about how easily it could shatter as I’d seen in the horror films that I often watched when alone in the evening.
Madame Clément was still talking as I rinsed off the shampoo and picked up the Yellow Rose conditioner which was priced beyond the reach of ordinary working women. Madame Clément had to be very careful with products as her hair was so harshly treated with heated styling every day and monthly colouring. I slowly and methodically combed the cream through the wet hanks of hair which I held away from her head. Madame Clement did not like her hair pulled and would protest with a high squeal at the slightest tug. I wondered how she coped on the surgeon’s table or when being waxed.
Once the conditioner was thoroughly distributed I closed my eyes and began the head massage, making small slow circles over the whole of her head. I loved having this done and could feel the relaxation flowing up my own hands and arms as I worked. I glanced down at Madame Clément who was now quiet and breathing slowly and deeply. My fingers stroked and circled picking up speed as they glided through the rich smooth cream and finished with a fast rhythmic tapping of my fingertips over her whole skull. I watched her closed eyes and the slow rise and fall of her chest before turning on the water. ‘Oh! Really!’ She squealed as the jets of icy water hit her warm wet head. ‘My apologies, we’re having some trouble with the thermostat.’ I said, rinsing and smoothing the water out of her hair before gently twisting it into a thick warm towel that I’d put ready on her shoulders.
Back in front of the mirror she immediately started to rearrange the turban, pulling at it and settling it so that it sat lower on her head and returned her eyebrows to their normal, even level. Now she was looking around for her coffee again while taking her cigarettes from her purse. Sylvie arrived with her coffee ‘Oh, I’m sorry Madame but we can’t allow smoking now. It’s the new regulations…the whole of Paris…’Sylvie trailed off and gave a small helpless shrug as Madame Clément impatiently tapped the cigarette back into its silver case. I caught sight of an inscription on the inside of the lid before she snapped it shut. ‘Oh well. I suppose I should really give up anyway.’ She caught my eye in the mirror and added with a wink ‘But one has so few pleasures these days’.
I quickly undid the turban and combed her hair through again. Spots of water and stray hairs fell onto the rubber cutting collar. She pulled her head away suddenly ‘Must you be so..’ she started to say glaring at me in the mirror. There must have been something in my face as rather than continuing the protest she picked up her coffee and took a sip. I leant over to the shelf in front of her and picked up the white gloves. I smoothed them on checking for any tears or holes however tiny as I did so; if anyone asked I would simply say that I had developed an allergy, many did, and so supplied my own gloves. Then while smiling at a passing colleague in the mirror, I picked up the tiny bottle. My heart pounded as I broke its seal as instructed and began to unwind its iridescent shrink wrapping. I’d spent hours whenever I’d been alone in our apartment staring at this tiny, beautifully crafted object in its case. With its hinged lid open it sat against the scarlet interior like a piece of expensive jewellery about to be handed over to the delighted recipient.
I’d even had it delivered secretly Poste Restante to a post office outside Paris that could not be traced – as far as I knew. It had taken a great deal of trouble and expense to get to this point but still I hesitated, my thumb resting on the edge of the ridged lid and fingers holding the bottle lightly but securely, while I thought about the past few months and Stefan’s increasing absences. Madame Clément’s phone beeped. She must have received a text. I knew as it was the same model of phone as Stefan’s and they both had the same settings. I thought about the text messages, the hurried ends of phone calls when I entered the room and the empty evenings and weekends while Stefan was working.
I opened the lid as Madame Clément watched me in the mirror and then began talking about her plans to travel to Canada: Toronto or perhaps Montreal; perhaps both if she stayed a little longer, but that would depend on her companion and his business commitments. She did not like to travel alone. Before I knew it I was tipping the mouth of the bottle so that a thin trickle of clear liquid flowed slowly onto her head. I replaced the lid and slipped the bottle into the bag which had come supplied with it. Then I began to massage her scalp as firmly as I dared. She winced and pulled away slightly from my probing fingers. ‘You need to hold still Madame.’ I said ‘This will energise your scalp and get the circulation going so that the therapy can work.’ I watched the hands of the clock tick forward relentlessly, completing three minutes exactly. ‘There we are.’ I turned away to strip off my gloves turning them inside out so that none of the solution touched me or anything else before placing them into the bag along with the bottle. I hardly dared look at Madame Clément.
She leant forwards to reapply her lipstick as I picked up the scissors. I had finished cutting her hair and was positioning the large hooped dryer and selecting its setting when Madame Clément said ‘It’s warm in here. Could you adjust the air conditioning?’ She was languidly waving a hand with its heavy expensive jewellery in front of her face which looked a little flushed. ‘I’m sure that you’ll cool down once your hair is dry.’ I replied. Madame Clément was now running her fingers around the close fitting lacy bodice of her dress. The flush was deepening in her face and was now creeping down her neck and onto her chest. It really was quite remarkable how pink she was starting to look. Madame Clément stared at the mirror in consternation and then down to her chest. The colour could now be seen coursing along her arms like a tide coming in, the colour now deepening rapidly to a vivid scarlet.
‘What have you done?’ Madame Clément screamed as she leapt out of her chair, snatching off the snowy white cape and throwing it to the floor in rage. ‘Me, Madame?’ I asked innocently as I bent to pick up the cape and saw seams of scarlet already at her calves. ‘You must have a rash. Perhaps you should see a Doctor?’ I suggested helpfully suppressing a delighted smile. Madame Clément was already tapping at the screen of her phone. The colour of her hands was now almost as scarlet as her nail varnish. Watching her face I saw first one and then a flood of tears sliding down the side of her nose. The contrast of the whites of her eyes against the scarlet skin of her face was quite remarkable.
After she had left in a taxi leaving a maelstrom of threats, curses and bewilderment behind her I sat in the staffroom with a cup of coffee cooling in front of me. I could feel the bag with its dangerous contents against my right hip. I would have to find a way to get rid of it safely. Then I remembered the old incinerator in the staff toilet. I smiled to myself and reached out for my coffee cup, noticing for the first time the palm of my right hand. It was a brilliant, bright scarlet. Horrified I turned up the palm of my left hand. It too was the colour of fresh blood.
