Saved by the Celebutante (34 page)

‘Oh, you poor thing.’ An elderly lady stops and pats me on the shoulder. ‘Here, take this.’ She presses a few coins into my hand and totters off.

What was that about?

I try to call after the woman to give her back her money but she ignores me and keeps walking.

I shrug and return to the salon.

Cindy looks up in the midst of tormenting her next victim. The grin disappears when she sees me.

‘May I help you?’ she asks politely. She doesn’t seem to remember that she’s just spent three hours destroying my hair.

‘I… er.. forgot my phone.’

‘Oh.’ She makes a big show of apologising to the girl in front of her for the interruption. She goes behind the counter and looks around for a moment before holding up a hot pink mobile. ‘Is this it?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ I grab it and hurry out again. I’m feeling all wrong – I have a terrible case of buyer’s remorse. Is it even still called that when you’re talking about something you didn’t actually pay for?

I nip into Starbucks and order a latte. I need caffeine to get me through the afternoon. I just know this isn’t going to end well for me.

I stand out on the kerb and swallow the scalding liquid in five seconds flat. It makes my eyes water. I stare blankly at the street for a moment.

‘Here love, go and buy yourself a hot meal.’ A kindly man has just handed me a five dollar note. What on earth is going on?

I walk to the station in a daze. Every now and then a stranger smiles sympathetically at me. It’s all very odd.

Then it hits me. They think I’m a homeless person! My haircut is so bad that it looks like I’ve been roughing it on the streets. I want to stop them and yell ‘Can’t you see I’m wearing designer sneakers?’ I’d borrowed them from Alex’s shop to practice my walk. Then I realise you can’t see them for the faded grey tracksuit pants I’m wearing – they were the closest thing I had to sports clothes. But my white t-shirt should be fine – it’s almost brand new. I look down and notice in horror that it’s covered in brown hair dye. I look like I have old food stains all over me. No wonder I’m being treated like a charity case.

I have to get home immediately. The train will take too long; a cab will be much quicker. I stick out my thumb as one drives past. The driver looks at me with a wrinkled nose and keeps going. A second one slows down and winds down the window.

‘Where to?’

‘Just to Thorn Street.’ I thrust my open wallet at him to prove I have the money. ‘Look, I can pay. I promise.’

He looks at me bewildered. ‘I never said you couldn’t.’

I hop in the back seat gratefully. ‘Sorry, it’s just that everyone seems to think I’m homeless today.’

‘I don’t know why. That haircut must have cost a bomb.’

I stare at him, amazed. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Well I can’t say much for the blow-drying technique, but it’s definitely cutting edge.’

Today is just getting stranger and stranger.

‘How do you know that?’ I ask curiously.

‘My daughter’s a hairdresser. We have copies of Hair Biz all over the house.’

‘I see.’

‘Look, you probably don’t think so now, but that style could look really good on you. When you get home, wash out all that gunk she’s put in your hair and then pin some clips here and here.’ He twists around in his seat and points to his own bald head as an example.

‘OK… I will. Thanks,’ I stammer. Who would have thought?

‘Here we are. That’ll be thirteen-ninety.’

I hand him a twenty and tell him to keep the change. He smiles.

‘Go on. Go and pour yourself a glass of wine and try what I said. You’ll be surprised.’

‘I hope so.’ I run over to my building at lightning speed and take refuge in the empty hallway.

Phew. At least I didn’t see anyone I know.

I zip up the elevator, unlock my door and hurry in, slamming it behind me.

At last. I’m safe.

***

An hour later, I’ve taken the cabbie’s advice. I’ve washed my hair and clipped it back like he demonstrated. He was right – it looks amazing now. Why couldn’t Cindy have done it like this in the first place? I’m feeling a lot better, so I pour myself some white wine and plonk down on the sofa, wrapped up snugly in my dressing gown. I flick on the telly to catch the five o’clock news.

‘Tonight’s special report highlights a serious problem in Brisbane. In a city as seemingly liveable as ours, an increasing number of people are being ignored. Without any way of speaking out, we must do it for them – and shed some light on this often misunderstood group of people.’

I watch, riveted. I’m a sucker for a sob story.

‘Homelessness.’ The newsreader adopts an appropriately serious expression out the front of City Hall with her microphone.

‘Many can no longer afford the rising cost of living. The price of rent, petrol and groceries have all gone up dramatically in recent years. This is forcing people to live in their cars or sleep on the streets.’

Poor homeless people. After today, I feel like I can relate to their situation. All that pity would wear me down after a while. And of course, it would be tough to get a good night’s sleep if you didn’t have a proper bed. I know what I’m like after a night on Alex’s couch. Unless I’m drunk, and then I can crash anywhere. That’s probably why so many homeless people are alcoholics.

The newsreader continues to talk while the screen displays a montage of the homeless roaming the streets downtown. There’s a lady with a shopping trolley piled high with plastic bags and cans… a man with a beanie pulled down over his scraggly grey hair chasing after pigeons in the park… and… me.

No! It can’t be!

There I am, looking bewildered as the old lady pats me on the shoulder and forces her change on me. For heaven’s sake.

‘Many of these people are desperate to integrate into society,’ the newsreader continues. ‘But without a place to stay, they no longer have access to the bathing and laundry facilities we take for granted.’ They zoom in on my stained t-shirt. Really? They can’t tell the difference between gravy stains and expensive hair dye?

This cannot be happening. It has to be some sort of joke. I desperately pray that all my friends are still at work or stuck in the afternoon traffic.

My home phone and mobile ring simultaneously. Bugger.

Check it out on Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/Zen-Queen-Kirsty-McManus-ebook/dp/B006PNS9KE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kirsty McManus was born in Sydney, Australia and moved to Queensland when she was 14. When she was 25, she lived in Japan for a year with her partner Kesh and worked as an English teacher. This was the inspiration behind her debut novel,
Zen Queen
. She also spent a year in Canada and then settled back down on the Sunshine Coast in 2008. She now writes almost full time, designs the occasional website and looks after her two little boys.