15 Simple Stories

Colour Green

Brush, brush, brush.

"Vivian, who's the boy on the poster?"

No sound.

Brush, brush, brush.

"Vivian, doesn't he look like a boy a lot of girls would like?"

Not one sound.

Brush, brush, brush.

"Vivian, are you even into boys?"

Not one single sound.

Cut, cut,  cut.

"My hair can't be that interesting that you can't speak to me."

It's not, Rachel but I have to focus if it needs to be perfect the way Countess wants.

Ring, ring.

Speak of the devil.

"That's Countess' bell."

Click, click, click, click.

"And those are Countess' heels."

"Vivian, Rachel's hair looks... presentable."

And that's Countess' voice.

"Thank you, Countess."

She pats my head as always and sets money in a paper clip- 20$ in 1$ bills- on my desk.
"Who's that boy on your poster?"

Vivian, Rachel's hair is finished. It's okay to speak a little more now.

"That's my dad when he was a musician."

Tap, tap, tap.

"You know music is illegal in city limits unless it's government-sanctioned."

"That's why he lived in the outer rim at the edge of the city barrier."

Grunt, grunt, grunt.

"Let's go, Rachel. Can't be late for your recital."

"Okay, Countess. Bye, Vivian."

Kiss, kiss, kiss.

"Wash your mouth off, Rachel. We don't kiss commoner's cheeks."

Wash, wash, wash.

Click, click, click, click.

Ring, ring.

I won't see either of them for hours but I'll see another customer in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Brush, brush, brush.

"Vivian, my brother says you're SOOOO pretty."

Brush, brush, brush.

No sound.

"That's right. You can't talk until you're done."

Cut, cut, cut.

She gets it.

The only sound is from the scissors snipping strands of hair from her face and it's bliss.

Besides, I'm not interested in anything but the colour green.

It's my livelihood and the only thing I exist for once my dad vanished into thin air.

Clack, clack, clack.

The client who fills the order for this girl swaggers in, leaves a metal clip of money on my desk and sways out the door.

The next several girls come in and out in a revolving door of colors and appearances but all of them have wealthy caretakers.

One asks me if I get lonely, one asks me if I cut my own hair, another asks me if I live inside my salon, and so on and so on.