Page 98 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Oh?”

“Your résumé—it says you were a hairdresser for many years before you were a cook . . . ?”

Scotty and I exchange glances.

“Um. Yes . . .”

“One of the residents has put chewing gum in . . . in”—she glances nervously at Scotty and clears her throat—“in a staff member’s hair. It’s an absolute mess.”

“Can’t she get it cut at a salon?” I ask.

“She’s got a date in half an hour! There’s no way she’ll have time to make an appointment. She insisted I come find you. Please help?”

“I’m sorry, it’s been such a long time, I really don’t think I could. I don’t even have equipment with me.”

She pulls me aside out of earshot and whispers who it is.

A wide grin spreads over my lips. “Say no more.”

Adjusting my face mask, I head to Allison’s office, passing Gladys on my way.

“I told you I didn’t do it,” the old woman says to Navneet. “I went to see her in her office, and she was asleep on the couch. She obviously rolled into it.”

Allison is perched on her desk chair in a short green dress, leaning toward a compact mirror as she fixes a strip of false lashes. “I appreciate this. Thank god you’re a hairdresser! Your résumé said you have twenty years’ experience—lucky me! Give me something that will make me look younger.”

“Sure thing. The cut I’m giving you will take decades off.” Babies are mostly bald, after all.

I bring the poultry shears out of my pocket. Good thing we served roast chicken tonight, so they have a greasy layer of chook fat on them. Must be great for brittle hair.

The disgusting pink gum is stretched throughout her black locks.

“So, what’s the story here?”

“That Gladys, you know the blind one? She rubbed gum in my hair. I think she needs to be moved to the dementia wing. She said I was asleep! How would she know?! She can’t even see!”

I hold back the pure rage swelling inside me, channeling it into my hands as I start chopping. Sticky pink clumps cling to the blade. I snip. I yank. I make no effort to be gentle.

She winces. I smile. And I thought cooking was fun!

“All done, Allison. This cut is all the rage at the moment—very avant-garde!”

“Thank you. I’ve got to run, I’ve got high hopes for this date, we’ve been chatting online for a month. I’ll have to have a look in the bathroom. Thanks again!”

She dashes away, and I admire the chunky gaps and hacked-off tufts on her scalp. As I walk down the corridor, I begin the countdown. Five, four, three, two . . .

“ARGHHHHHH!” Allison’s scream fills the hallway and my heart.

If only I could record it for my ringtone. That was for breaking Beau’s viola!

“MARTIN! What the hell have you done?!” I hear her yell. Too late. I’ve already stripped off my chef whites and am halfway to my room.

Martin’s gone. Just old Griff is here now—mild, muddled, and nowhere near the scissors.

63

Lisa

Weeks pass, and time rinses my diagnosis until it becomes softer—not the wiry, irritating fabric it was to begin with. The shock has dissipated, and most days I’m okay. But at night, the anger returns like a lead blanket, heavy and immovable.