LITMIR.BIZ

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you are a wreck. There’s absolutely no chance you’ll get up the energy to go out yourself. That’s why some hairdressing salons are like nightclubs, with loud music and crazy hair and clothes – because this is the substitute for a night out for a hard-working hairdresser. Actual hairdresser nights out usually occur on a Monday when the salon has been closed all day.

      3. Hairdressers are acquaintance magnets. A hairdresser at a party may inspire a queue. Once the secret is out that you do hair you will never be entirely friendless, but unless you insist on charging for your services from the word ‘go’, you may end up penniless. So, if you see a tramp-woman with fabulous hair, the chances are she used to be a hairdresser. That’s a bit like the 50p lady round our way; her clothes are always in tatters and she generally looks as if she’s never eaten a square meal in her life, but every so often she gets her hair done and it’s surprisingly chic. Someone told me she used to be a hairdresser and I believe them. It totally figures.

      As I explained all this to Sarah, it did make me wonder why on earth I’d chosen this career in the first place. But the point is I have chosen it. And I am totally 100 per cent committed to it.

      Well, Abe just sat and watched us while I was cutting Sarah’s hair and listened to me talk. He didn’t interfere like your normal, real dad might – like Uncle Zé would, for example. You see I realised quite early on in our relationship that Abe might be my biological dad, but he was never going to be Dad. He’s just Abe – he’s like this extra relative I have who happens to be a nice guy. While I was cutting Sarah’s hair he was a little nervous – his hands shook a bit. But my hands didn’t shake while I was cutting because I am NOT nervous about hair. Because I know I’m good at it. At least, I thought I was until Aunt Lilah fired me.

      Now Uncle was doing his ‘dad’ bit and picking up the pieces. He waved a tenner at me.

      ‘You buy yourself a treat with that,’ he said. ‘Put it towards new clothes or something.’

      ‘I can’t, tito. I’ve just been fired. I don’t deserve it.’

      ‘Course you do; you work hard. I work hard, your Aunt Lilah works hard. We all work hard.’ Then he stood up and said, ‘That pancit needs more fish sauce,’ before disappearing into the kitchen.

      My phone buzzed. I stared at it. A text from Mum.

       What happened?

      I ignored it. The news had clearly taken less than a nanosecond to travel from Aunt Lilah to Mum. She’d be on her way round here.

      I texted Billy, just so he could get my side of things before he got Aunty’s.

       Ur mum just fired me

      Within seconds there were two texts back. One was from Billy.

       No way wot you done?

      And the other one was from my boyfriend – that’s José Antonio de Cruz himself, or Tony Cruz to the general public. He’d have clocked the text I sent to Billy, being that they’re best mates and generally hang out being geeky together.

       Wossup?

      Then the phone was ringing and Tony was on the end of it.

      ‘Dish the dirt,’ he said.

      So I put on the brave face and mopped up the tears and told him all about it. About the hair and Mrs Nellist and the sweeping and Aunty. In the telling, my personal tragedy became a good anecdote and I could just imagine Tony’s cute little head bobbing up and down. It’s his nervous tick, but it also makes him like the most positive person I know. It used to annoy me, but now I find it kind of reassuring.

      ‘Your aunt sounds as if she really lost it there,’ he said. ‘See – you should never work with your family.’

      ‘She did lose it,’ I said, ‘and you were right about not working with family. Are you nodding your head off right now?’

      ‘So what if I’m nodding my head – what is the problem with nodding my head?’ His voice went up at the end like it always does when he’s irritated. I like him even when he sounds like that.

      ‘You are way, way too positive about life. It’s not natural.’

      ‘And you are way, way too angsty. Why are you so angsty?’

      Why was I angsty?

      ‘Two reasons. Number 1: I’ve just been fired. And number 2: Have you met my family at all?’

      ‘Y’know,’ said Tony, ‘I think you badly need some TLC, maybe I’ll swing by with Billy – see what you’re up to . . .’

      I knew exactly where this was leading, because Tony Cruz is always looking for an excuse to give me Tender Loving Care. Unfortunately, it is up to every member of my family to prevent him. And as my family live all over the neighbourhood, it means that my neighbourhood is a No Booty Mr Cutie zone.

      As if on cue, there was a rapping sound on the glass of the café door. It was my mum. I rolled my eyes. Now I couldn’t even have a conversation with Tony without being interrupted?

      ‘Gotta go,’ I said. ‘Call you later.’

      ‘Laters.’

      Mum was mouthing What happened? at me through the door, like she couldn’t even wait to be inside before starting to interrogate me. Oh God, why couldn’t my family just give me a centimetre of space; a window of like five minutes to gather myself together before they turned everything into an episode of Eastenders?

      Uncle came bustling through from the kitchen and opened the café door. ‘Ay naku, Angela, it’s all fine. No drama here. We’re just having a bite to eat. Join us if you like.’

      Mum pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. Her hair needed a trim. Even though I totally remodelled her hair last year, making her ditch the two styles she’d always sported (one on the back and one on the front of her head), she never let me get at it regularly enough. It wasn’t surprising that her hair had started to make its way back into the old shmullet. I made a mental note to pin her down to a trim at some point. Get her back into that stacked bob we’d gone for. But now didn’t seem to be an appropriate moment.

      Mum peered at me over her glasses while Uncle dished up pancit, for her this time. Then he went back into the kitchen, claiming to be hunting for the fish sauce again. He was giving us space. Subtle, my uncle.

      ‘Are you OK? Do you want to talk about it?’ said Mum.

      ‘Not particularly, if that’s all right with you.’

      ‘That’s OK. That’s just fine.’

      Her mouth went into a straight line. I was sure it wasn’t OK. I was sure that Mum was desperate to talk about it – that she was really frustrated that I didn’t want to tell my side. Sure enough, five minutes into a conversation about other salons in the area who might be hiring, Mum said, ‘But of course all salons will expect you to sweep up.’

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I said.

      ‘It’s not supposed to mean anything,’ said Mum.

      ‘Has someone been telling you that I’m a stroppy teenager who thinks I know it all, how I have a lot to learn, how I’m unable to follow instructions, how I don’t listen, how wilful I am, how I refuse to sweep the floor from left to right downhill as you’re facing the back door because if the draft comes under the door it blows the hair all over the shop?’

      ‘No,’ said Mum, going a bit pink. ‘No one’s been telling me that. At all, as it happens.’

      ‘Hmmm.’ Like I really believed her.

      ‘So is that why she fired you?’

      ‘I said I don’t want to talk about it!’

      ‘I know,’

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