‘You don’t like it.’
‘No. I do. Honestly. It’s just…’
What? That it isn’t quite what I was expecting? When she’d mentioned that she was going for a new look I clearly had not exercised my imagination as hard as she had. Her face is starting to crumple. I can almost see her self confidence taking flight. If I am going to salvage anything from this I need to say something. Now.
‘It’s just that it’s so different. You look…’ Again words fail me. Come on Paul. This is not the moment to suffer an uncharacteristic loss of vocabulary. I can see tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.
‘I knew it was a mistake. I knew it. I should have made her stop right at the beginning when there was still enough to bob. What did I think I was doing?’
She is no longer talking to me but to her reflection which smirks back at us, its new cropped orange hair saying all that is needed.
I like her hair long, dark, glossy. I like to twist it like rope through my fingers and pull her towards me.
‘I think marmalade suits you,’ I lie.
She wails.
200 words.
