The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1301 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I relaxed in the salon chair as the girl washed my hair prior to one of the stylists cutting it. The place was very well appointed and equipped, and I wondered if Julie would like to work here when she was qualified.

A towel was draped over my hair and tucked under it at the back and I was led back to the stylist’s station. The stylist was a Scots girl called Morag, and was, according to the hotel reception staff, ‘the best there is.’

It was two thirty and Simon was busy watching his rugby. I was having Morag, fiddle with my hair and tut loudly. She spoke with a very quiet accent as she combed my hair out, and began cutting it.

Once that was done, she donned her rubber gloves and placed a small rubber or plastic hat on my still wet hair and began picking hairs through it. She had recommended highlights, so who was I to disagree?

I’d booked in under the name, Cathy Watts, which was a legitimate one and I’d done it to prevent my married name influencing anything. I wanted to see how good this stylist was, so far she’d impressed me with her dancing hands and relaxing conversation.

“So what d’you do, Cathy?” she asked me.

“When I’m working, I teach ecology and field biology at Portsmouth, uni.”

“That sounds really interesting.”

“It is, but at the moment, I’m a bit tied up with looking after my kids, the youngest is only seven months old.”

“Are you still feeding her?”

“Yes, although she’s taking some solids as well, which she tucks into with relish.”

“What’s her name?”

“Catherine.”

“The same as you?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Och, don’t be afraid for naming your daughter after yourself, at least she’ll know who you were.”

“I hope so.” I had the unpleasant thought slip into my mind, what would happen to her if I died before she was old enough to remember me? That would be two mothers she’d have lost and a totally terrible thought.

I was rinsed out after about twenty minutes and my hair set in big rollers. I settled for a set rather than a perm, although it would only have been something like a demi-wave and I have enough body in my hair already.

While my hair was air drying, I was led to another part of the salon, and laid back in a reclining chair while someone did a facial on me. I was so relaxed, that when they did my manicure, I was nearly asleep and offered my hands without any resistance.

I lay there with all sorts of gloop on my face and slices of cucumber carefully placed on my eyelids, and my mind somewhere else. I hoped I didn’t snore too loudly. We’d only had a light lunch so I was half aware my tummy was rumbling, but with the various driers and other things buzzing away in the distance, I hoped no one would hear it.

I felt someone shaking my arm, “Just goin’ to take all this cream off your face now, Cathy.” I think I mumbled something in reply because she removed the cucumber and began wiping the gunk off my skin.

My makeup was then done, although I wasn’t too struck on having skin makeup done–I never use it. My hair was finished and I was more than aware of the feel of stuff on my face. It seemed ironic that they’d used all these cleansers and toners and face masks and so on; then plastered all this crap on my lovely moisturised skin.

Okay, I looked very sophisticated and elegant but I felt like a painted doll, like someone in one of those tranny fantasies–I suppose to some extent I was living one, except I thought of myself as an ordinary woman, who wore a bit of lippy, some mascara and occasionally eyeliner. If I was going somewhere I wanted to make an impression, I’d use blusher to highlight my cheekbones, but otherwise I didn’t bother. I did get my hair cut fairly regularly and I always wore good perfume, and my makeup was quality stuff as well.

Morag finished my hair after removing the rollers and combing me out and brushing it into the style we’d agreed. I’d opted not to have my hair up but to allow it to stay down and free. It was shining really well and the auburn highlights, looked really natural. My hair looked really good, hanging down to my shoulders and beyond, but meeting under my chin in the front.

My fingers now sported a pearlised pink varnish to match my lips and I’d forgotten how long it had been since I’d painted them myself. Something which made me smile to myself was that I used to paint them regularly when I was sitting alone in my bedsit and had to clean them off for the next morning or certainly after a weekend–and now when I could paint them with impunity, I didn’t because I didn’t have time–ironic or what?

I signed the chit, which would go on the room account. “Which room, Mrs Watts?”

“The Belgravia suite,” I had to tell the truth this time.

“Oh, that’s one of the Cameron’s suites–are you staying with them?”

“Yes,” I smiled and blushed.

“Oh, Lord Simon is there at the moment.”

“Yes, he’s my husband.”

“Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry, Lady Cameron–I should have known.”

“No, I deliberately didn’t want any favouritism which was why I used my maiden name.”

“I hope everything has been satisfactory, Lady Cameron?”

“Entirely, and I’m leaving a tip for all of you.”

“Thank you, Lady Cameron.”

“Where’s Lady Cameron?” asked Morag walking up to the desk.

“This is, Lady Cameron,” said the receptionist.

“Och, why didnae I ken that–of course, the dormouse lady.” Her accent returned more strongly when she was taken aback. We chatted for a few minutes and I reassured her I wasn’t on any undercover mission to report back to anyone, other than to say I’d been treated very well. She went off to see another client and I left the salon slipping quickly back to the suite because I felt self conscious with all the makeup on. It almost reminded me of the old days when I’d slip out to post a letter at eleven o’clock at night and hope no one saw me in my skirt and modest heels.

Simon was so engrossed in the rugby, he didn’t even look at me when I went in. I made us some tea and he casually looked at me when he accepted the tea. He looked back at the screen and then back at me. “Crikey, Babes, you look hot.”

“It is warm in here,” I agreed.

“No, hot as in smokin’.”

“I don’t smoke–never have, can’t stand it.”

“No, you look like a totally hot babe, get me?”

“I feel like a painted trollop.”

“No, it looks really sophisticated.”

“I’m not sure I can stand all this stuff on my face for the rest of the day.”

“Yay,” Smon jumped up and bounced about, “We won,” he danced about and I had to move his cup of tea before he knocked it over.

“What, England won?”

“England? Who are they? I was watching Scotland beat Italy.”

“Oh, I thought you supported England,” I said and ducked into the bathroom before he could grab me.

I looked at my painted face in the mirror and pulling out a couple of wet wipes, began to rub the foul stuff off my face. I felt so much better once I cleaned it all off and them wiped my face in my flannel and towel. I stepped back out into the sitting room and he looked up at me.

“What happened to the makeup?”

“It felt horrible.”

“Want me to complain?”

“No, there was nothing wrong with it, I just didn’t like the feel of it on my face–it felt like a mask.”

“It looked pretty good, I wished I’d got a photo of it.”

“Nah, let’s leave the sophisticated tart look for them who likes it, shall we,” I said kissing him.