Styling Head

Considering Butterflies
In the bath, two children pressed their feet together, making an oranges and lemons arch for the sponge pontoon. Thirsty, one had filled that sponge up with cold water from the tap and sucked it out, but now the discarded vessel docked beside a bare bottom. A girl hoped to catch a verruca from the other, as verrucas were cultivated by popular kids at school who had pierced ears and ate salt and vinegar crisps. Verrucas had power:
“Can’t swim, Mrs. Keith, I’ve got a verruca.”
Helen had wiggled her mother of pearl toes – silvery pale. The colour made her tan tawny, but she wouldn’t have picked it for that. Not then, when we were ten. Nail varnishes were pinched from mums, with the exception of our gloopy peel-off stuff with stretch capabilities of an elastic band.
Helen had this Girl’s World styling head, which came with beads and makeup, and we’d taken the tiny pink lipstick into the bath with us. That head smelt of heliotrope, candied violets and fleshy plastic, and even then I knew there was something submissive and carnal about a bodiless doll. Teachers later told me, ‘Sometimes it’s the gaps that tell us the most,’ and I felt that about Leila’s lack of body. Her head was as crotchy as a vulva.
“Stand up,” ordered Helen. “It’s time for your tattoo.”
I studied my foot but there was no sign the verruca had bitten.
“Stand up, I said.”
She drew a pink butterfly above my bellybutton; the stripes of my ribcage were wing veins and each apex seemed to be stretching for areolae.
“I wanted an arachnoid,” I said, reaching for the wet sponge and squishing it down on her head so tentacles of strawberry scented water slipped down her goosebumping skin.

Rochas Femme

I'm always keen to see the perfumes on a dressing table, and there is no better opportunity than a house viewing.

Some best friends, with whom I lodge, have been thinking of buying another property, and we went to have a look around a Victorian town house. The proportions were huge; high ceilings and big solemn windows.

The lady who lived there must have been a decade older than us, but still young. In her thirties. She had three children, and one announced to us: 'This is a cold house'.
'She doesn't want to move,' said her mother.
The mother had blond hair, fair, creped skin and pretty eyes. She was curvy and small and I thought it likely she was both prone to allergies and efficient.

We saw that a lot of re-plastering needed to be done to restore the 1881 house to its former majesty. It isn’t one of the biggest town houses in our city, but it struck me it might have belonged to a well-off merchant: unfussy, but dignified.

The mother told us she met her husband at a student house party, huddling at the oven to keep warm. I thought this was a nice thing to share. The husband is a history teacher.

On her dresser, in a room which had a patchwork quilt on the bed, were the following: Chanel No.5 and Rochas Femme. The Femme had been well-used. I didn’t smell it on her, but I wish I had, because I would LOVE to detect this skanky, sexy nectar on someone. I’d never have put her in that, but I am glad I know. It’s like being told a secret.