AT A PERIOD OF EXCEPTIONAL DULLNESS

The influence of the early evening’s sunset was much less bloody inside of the salon, spreading itself like red smoke or like a slowly moving red fog, unbounded.

Yet, Mrs. Farquhar’s hair was nearly bloodred, and it behaved like dry hair.

The hairdresser lifted a clump of it, dropped it. To soften it, she reached for her leave-in detangler.

She looked for more signs of neglect, the thread connections that could come to light. She said, “It’s all broken. It’s much worse.”

The haircut trickled along, and it would take a long time.

But how terribly unhappy Mrs. Farquhar was. She must not have been adaptable to something else much more serious in particular.

However, the tea she had been served had the tang of the dirty lake of her childhood that she remembered swallowing large amounts of while swimming, and she wore the shop’s black Betty Dain easy-to-wear client wrap robe.

The full view of Mrs. Farquhar’s face and of her hair in the mirror was a trial for both of them.

Nonetheless, the hairdresser preened. She wore an elite Betty Dain gown, too.

Later she tidied up and by breakfast time, at home, the next morning—the hairdresser was alone, wedged between her chair and the table. There was a plastic plate in front of her and a ceramic mug. These both had glossy surfaces—impenetrable, opaque.

She removed her solitaire pearl finger ring, put it onto the plate.

Through the window she saw her pruned shrubbery, a narrow green lawn, no trees.

She believed it was her duty to size these things up.

What was it that she did or did not admire? It was a question of her upsetting something.