Yours Truly
Authors: Kirsty Greenwood
Yours Truly
Kirsty Greenwood
Yours Truly © Kirsty Greenwood 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events, locales and to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.
First Published in 2012 by Novelicious Books
Cover design by Kirsty Greenwood, Novelicious Books
Find out more about the author at
www.kirstygreenwood.com
and
www.novelicious.com
For Edd. I love you.
Kirsty Greenwood was born in 1982 in Oldham, Greater Manchester. A graduate of North Trafford College and Salford University, she is the founding editor of the popular female fiction and chick lit website Novelicious.
Yours
Truly is Kirsty’s first novel.
She hopes you like it.
Kirsty Greenwood is represented by Hannah Ferguson at The Marsh Agency.
Connect with Kirsty online…
www.facebook.com/kirstygreenwoodbooks
CHAPTER ONE
In all my twenty-seven years of life, I have never before noticed the astonishing similarities between my own head and a ten pin bowling ball.
Thanks to Barbara
-
senior stylist at Hair Hackers, Manchester
-
the resemblance is now uncanny.
In only two hours this ruthless hair destroyer has managed to enhance my already round face with a ‘Friar Tuck’ inspired bob that cups my plump cheeks. Add that to the magic forehead widening fringe, and the double chin boosting tuck under, and the result is nothing less than extraordinary…
“
It looks fabulous, just…
stunning
,
”
Barbara chirps, waving a teeny pink mirror behind my head.
“
The colours have turned out gorgeous, don’t you think?
”
Ah, the colours. I should probably mention that the Luxurious Caramel, Sticky Treacle and Ash Blonde I asked for have somehow turned out to be Felt Tip Orange, Poo Brown and Ash…
as in ash of cigarette.
Also? It’s stripy.
I stare into the huge mirror in front of me, bewildered. I’m getting married in a month and my head has just been gravely mistreated.
What the chuff was I thinking?
First rule of getting married; don’t go to a brand new hairdresser mere weeks before your wedding and expect it to be okay.
Hmm....
that's probably not the
actual
first rule of getting married. I bet it's somewhere in the top ten, though.
Right.
I have to fix this.
I look up at Barbara and give her my most gracious smile.
“
I
don’t think -
”
“
Do you know, I think I might have these colours myself,
”
Barbara butts in, beaming.
“
They’re really complimentary, aren’t they?
”
No. They are not. They’re insulting. I look like the love spawn of Anne Widdecombe and a...
really round headed tabby cat.
I should tell her.
I’m definitely going to tell her. Right this instant. Barbara’s a perfectly nice woman, I’m sure. But what she has just done to my hair is cruel, and I, Natalie Butterworth, am going to have the guts to be honest. I am going to ask her why, when I requested face-slimming, feathery layers
à
la Jennifer Aniston, she adorned me with a Lego head helmet
à
la no one since the 1960’s.
I will tell her this. For victims of bad hairdressers here and beyond I will stand up to her. I will firmly tell her that I absolutely refuse to pay
for this -
the most unflattering hair cut in all of England. I will absolutely insist she makes it better. I will…
“
Yeah, and the cut is brilliant,
”
I say brightly.
“
The condition is sooo much better. It’s so
smooth
and so
shiny
.
”
I am cooing.
Barbara calls over the junior stylists and some of the other clients who all clamber up to gawp at the monstrosity now sitting atop my horrified face.
Massive balls.
I can’t do it. I can’t tell her. She looks so proud of her handiwork. And it took her two whole hours. I can’t just refuse to pay. That would be terribly rude. Plus, when you think about it, it’s not Barbara's fault I have a fat head, is it?
“
Would you like to make your way over to the payment area?
”
she asks, untying the black plastic cape from around my neck and leading me towards a till by the door. One of the hair washers totters over with my denim jacket. See, why can’t I have hair like her? Subtle, not scary…
“
It looks
reeeeally
trendy,
”
she says, her pretty teenage face turning cherry red. Wait…
was that a snigger?
Oh man. I want to reach up and ruffle it into submission, but I can hardly mess up Barbara’s hard work right in front of her.
Okay. I’ll just fix it when I get home. Maybe I could buy one of those do-it-yourself hair dyes. Yep, I’ll do that. Better than causing some dramatic and embarrassing scene.
“
Right
, f
lower
, that’ll be eighty-
nine pounds and ninety pence,
”
says Barbara.
“
And I’ll book you an appointment for four weeks for a trim, shall I?
”
Ninety quid? Ninety quid?!
Nooooo!
I cannot pay ninety pounds for this. It’s absurd.
“
Um…
look…
”
I say carefully.
“
I
-
”
“
You look
stunning
, love,
”
she cuts in, her expression one of overt pride.
“
I’m so glad it’s come out so well. You, know… I think it might just be one of the best
hair
dos I’ve ever done…
”
Shit.
I hand over my credit card, tip about thirty percent, and jog on out of the salon, never to return again.
As the door clicks shut behind me, I’m pretty sure I hear a burst of laughter…
Can you get married in a hat?
Shuffling through a puddle soaked Piccadilly Gardens, amongst the final throngs of late night shoppers, I keep my eyes lowered. The shops have all closed so I haven’t been able to buy a hat, and I’m now having to face the general public with my terrifying hair on full show.
I arrive at the bus stop and dig my phone out of my leather satchel. I’ll call Meg; best friend since primary school, wannabe pop star, bad hair sympathizer and all round good egg. She’ll know what to do.
While the phone is ringing a pair of yummy mummies stroll by, perfect, chubby children in tow.
“
Mummy,
”
peeps an angelic looking girl.
“
What is wrong with that lady's head?
”
I peer around, trying to locate the object of
the
little girl's interest. But
I’m
the only lady at the bus stop. Hang on…is - is she referring to
my
head?
Both mothers squint over before their eyes widen slightly in polite horror. They swiftly grab hold of their respective children’s hands.
“
Some people are just different, Olivia,
”
says the taller mum dragging her daughter away.
“
Don’t stare at the lady...
”
They hurry off, only glancing back when they’re far enough down the road to be safe from my evil hair woman clutches.
Excellent.
“
Hello? Natty?
”
Meg’s voice booms out loudly through the mobile, her lush Geordie accent as broad as ever and with no
discernible use of the letter T
.
“
Meg, thank God! I have issues.
”
“
Didn't we establish that when you were sixteen?
”
“
Ho ho. Really, I just had my hair done and it’s horrible. It’s so bad that I’m going to scare people at my own wedding! When I walk down the aisle the guests won't be tearfully moved by my radiant beauty. They'll just be tearful.
”
I take a deep breath.
Meg’s less than sympathetic response is to crack up into giggles.
“
Cheers,
”
I huff.
“
Your understanding means the world to me.
”
“
I’m sorry,
”
says Meg, still chuckling.
“
It’s just, this is classic Natalie. I bet you didn’t even tell them you didn’t like it, did you?
”
“
No, but
-
”