Here is the first chapter of that book.
“Oh my God, are you kidding me? What kind of miserable, washed-up has-been can't even get a simple hair dye right? Did they even bother teaching you anything at that joke of a cosmetology school you went to 40 years ago, or did you skip class because you were too busy trying to cover up your own grey hair?
“I said platinum blonde. Platinum! But clearly, you're too deaf and blind to know the difference. This mess on my head? This pathetic excuse for a dye job? It looks like you dipped my hair in your own failed dreams. It’s the colour of someone who’s completely given up on life and is just waiting to be put out of her misery. No wonder you’re stuck in this dump, ruining people’s hair. It’s probably the only place desperate enough to hire someone as incompetent as you.
“And that attitude? Please. Who do you think you are? Just because you’ve been hacking away at hair since the Stone Age doesn’t mean you know anything. If you had even a shred of talent, you wouldn’t be stuck here, embarrassing yourself with these tragic attempts at being relevant. You wouldn’t know what good hair looks like if it slapped you in the face, which, honestly, it should.
“Here’s a suggestion: do the world a favour and quit already. Stop pretending you have any idea what you’re doing, and let someone who actually knows how to listen and follow directions take over. Because looking at you, it’s painfully clear that your best days are long gone, and frankly, it’s pathetic that you’re still trying.”
The hairdresser, with a dignified smile, replied, “Sweetheart, I understand you’re upset, but trust me, time is everything with these colours. Just give it a day or two, and the shade will lighten up perfectly. I’ve seen this happen a hundred times—it’s just about being patient."
"Patient?” the young girl asked, “Do I look like someone who has time to sit around and wait for your screw-ups to magically fix themselves? My day is already completely ruined because of you. I have important places to be and people to impress, and unlike you, I can’t afford to walk around looking like a washed-up disaster.
“Honestly, maybe you ‘off’ yourself, because if I were as hopeless as you at my job, I wouldn’t even want to be here. You’ve clearly hit rock bottom if this is the best you can do. Pathetic."
"You know what?” the hairdresser rolled her eyes, “You need to shut your clamp for a second and see things from my perspective. You think your day is ruined? My day is shot too, thanks to you waltzing in here like you own the place. I was supposed to be home right now, baking a championship apple pie for the county fair tomorrow. But instead, I’m here dealing with your ridiculous tantrum over a shade of blonde that will look fine in a couple of days.
“Do you have any idea what it takes to make a perfect apple pie? It’s not just about tossing some apples and dough together, no—it’s about timing and careful preparation. First, you’ve got to pick the right apples, not too sweet, not too tart. Then you’ve got to peel them just right, thin enough to keep the flavour but thick enough so they hold up in the oven. And the crust? That’s an art form on its own. You have to chill the dough at just the right temperature, roll it out evenly, and get it into the pan without a single tear.
“Then, there’s the spice blend. Too much cinnamon, and you’ve overwhelmed the apples; too little, and the flavour falls flat. You have to balance the nutmeg, allspice, and a hint of lemon zest to brighten it all up. And don’t even get me started on the lattice top—that takes precision and skill, not to mention the patience to weave those strips perfectly.
“And when it finally goes into the oven, you’ve got to watch it like a hawk. One minute too long, and the crust is burnt. One minute too short, and it’s soggy. It’s a delicate dance that takes years to master. But here I am, listening to you whine about a hair colour that will be just fine if you give it a bit of time. So don’t talk to me about ruining your day, sweetheart. You have no idea what real effort looks like."
"What the hell does some stupid apple pie have to do with you screwing up my hair? You think I care about your little baking disaster? I’m talking about my hair, not some—"
"I’m trying to explain to you a thing about timing!" the hairdresser interrupted, her tone sharp.
Suddenly, with a swift and unexpected motion, the hairdresser snatched a pair of scissors from her station and drove them straight through the young woman’s hand, pinning it to the chair. The blade sliced through flesh and bone, sending shockwaves of pain through her body.
The hairdresser, now eerily calm, leaned in close, her voice low and cold, "Where is *he*?"
