to the rubber-covered floor, a man in a corner bent over a basin and a short, plump barber began to give him a shampoo.
All was normal.
On the other side of the double-fronted shop, divided three-quarters of the depth of the shop by a wooden partition, was the ladies’ salmon. There were several cubicles, much whispering, much mystery, a kind of abracadabra of the coiffeur’s craft. The several women, out of his sight, undoubtedly looked like space men.
Outside, people strolled or hurried. Inside, Jim closed his eyes, and hoped that it wouldn’t be too long, then opened them again as the man next to him dropped a magazine on the table, and went to a newly vacated chair.
“Only one more,” Jim mused, and picked up the magazine. It was small and printed on cheap paper, and the title read:
HAIR STYLIST
He turned over the pages and saw quarter-page pictures of women’s hair, rather like some likely to be found in the glossy magazines, but nothing like so effective because these were printed in black and red and on newsprint. Beneath each was the descriptive style, beneath that in turn the hairdresser who had dressed the hair of the model whose picture was shown.
“There isn’t one a patch on Evelyn,” Jim mused, and ran the pages through quickly. He was about to drop the magazine when he saw the advertisement on the last page.
?1,000
in PRIZES
this said boldly, and beneath it in smaller type but quite clearly:
Hair Styles Competition for the Most Beautiful
HEAD OF HAIR
in Great Britain
LADIES’ section GENTLEMEN’S section
Entry FREE
HAIR STYLISTS’ ASSOCIATION
“You next, sir,” said the Italian with the white teeth and bright smile.
“Oh, yes, thanks.” Jim jumped up. He took the magazine with him, sat down, submitted to the earlier rituals, and saw his own and the beaming Italian’s reflection in a tall mirror. “This beautiful hair competition,” he said, “can you tell me more about it?”
“Oh, yes, with pleasure, sair. You take a leaflet.” The barber stood back, surveyed Jim’s silky, thinning hair and its large bald spot, and looked puzzled.
“A friend of mine might be interested,” Jim said, solemnly.
“Oh, yes, sair, I quite understand,” said the barber, “You take a leaflet. Everything is written down there.” He began to use the clippers with that kind of exaggerated care of a barber who knows that if he ill-treated his victim’s hair, it might have serious results; no infant’s hair was ever cut with greater care and gentleness. “The competition is open to everyone who had hair dressed by a member of the Hair Stylists’ Association, sair. It is very simple.”
“Ah,” thought Jim. “The snag. I wonder where Evelyn has hers done.”
He continued to think about it idly as he succumbed to the ministrations of the barber who certainly knew his business. He left, twelve minutes later, taking half a dozen of the printed leaflets about the competition in his pocket, and telling himself that he was probably a fool, and that Evelyn knew all about the competition. But if she knew nothing, and it attracted her, he couldn’t imagine anyone else winning.
“No, Jim,” said Evelyn. “I haven’t heard of it.” She studied a leaflet with keen interest while she went on: “But it would be just a waste of time, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“No one would stand a chance against you,” Jim asserted, and turned to one of the older girls in the office. “Rose, what’d you think?”
“It’s as good as her money!”
“No, really—” Evelyn began.
“No mock modesty,” Jim ordered with affected sternness. Tor the sake of the office you’ll have to enter.”
“Of course you will,” Rose said.
“It would be crazy not to,” put in a typist who had been studying the leaflet over Evelyn’s shoulder. “Here, Jackie, come and tell us what you think . . . Look, you don’t have to have a perm, you just have to have a set at one of these hairdressers, and they say they’ve members all over London . . . The one near Villiers Street is the best for you, obviously . . . George! Come and let us know what you think .. .”
Jim strolled away from the crowd round Evelyn’s desk, and went to his own, in a corner. He was Deputy Office Manager, Buying and Accounts Departments of Jepsons, Mail Order Suppliers to The World. It was a quarter past two, and he ought to have stopped the discussion and got everyone back to a machine, a file or an order book, but Jepsons believed that a policy of reasonable latitude witIthe staff was wise policy. In five minutes all of the staff of this office, thirty-two people in all, were busy. It was true that Evelyn had the leaflet on her desk, but she began to type out orders from rough notes he or the Buyer had made at a bewildering speed; in front of a typewriter, she became a part of the machine. So did several of the other girls. The clatter of machines, the rustle of papers, the occasional bang of a filing drawer, the ringing of a telephone, the footsteps of clerks with roving commissions, turned this into just another afternoon.
A little before half past five, work done and powder compacts, combs and lipsticks appearing like a rash all over the office, Evelyn came across to Jim. He would be working late, and his desk was still littered with papers; his task was to check orders against invoices, and pass the orders for payment.
“I’ve made up my mind,” Evelyn said.
