Flash Fiction 5-17-20 W/C 250
There is no space for my hair under this umbrella. It has been eight weeks since I had a haircut. Now the wind is blowing and those long strands are getting stuck in the thingies that hold up the umbrella. And now the umbrella is collapsing and my wet long stringy hair is wrapped along the thin thingies that are now tearing out some of that hair.
The wind is blowing. Rather, the gale is gusting. Birds are flying backwards. Rain is falling sideways. Yes, the storm is as bad as they forecast.
“You’re early.” Carly greets me at the salon cooly. She barely looks up from the computer screen.
I finish unwrapping my remaining hair from the umbrella thingies and drip all over the counter.
“Umm, well, the storm sort of blew me in. Sorry. I can wait.”
“Brooke isn’t here yet.” Carly stands and pointed to a chair in the waiting area. “You can wait there.” Then she plops herself back behind her computer. Then she wipes the counter where I had dripped.
So I wait and dried off. I throw the dead umbrella with lots of my DNA in the fancy trashcan. When Brooke arrives and takes me back to cut my hair, I leave a big wet spot on the chair.
“So, Marge, how long has it been since you had a haircut?” Brooke lifts my hair and examines the tortured tresses.
“About an hour. I kind of trimmed it a bit on my way here.”