1984, Haircut

Jonson sat by the window in the hairdressers. He didn't know where to look. He looked out the window at cars drifting past. He looked in the wall length mirror at the hairdresser, her assistant, and an old lady getting some sort of paste applied to her hair. There was no-one else in the room. The assistant brought him coffee. A young blonde thing. But not really his type. Seemed a tad vacuous.
Jonson was growing impatient. He had been sat waiting 20 minutes. The hairdresser reassured him that she would be ready for him soon and he affected to seem relaxed and genial. But he was hungover and here was his Saturday being hoovered up sitting around listening to the inane conversations of these three females. He imagined bringing out an assault rifle and slaughtering them. Jesus, where did that come from? Relax. Keep it together, Jonson.
He was studying the blonde assistant in the mirror. He glanced at her bosom. She wore a low-cut top. He imagined forcing her down to the floor and - stop it. Sip yr coffee, Jonson. Ah, it's hot. It's good. Good coffee.
The women were discussing fish soup now. They were discussing it in skeptical tones. Jonson decided to interject. "I had fish soup before. Cullen Skink. It was nice."
The women were silent. Jonson pretended to be fascinated by a set of scissors laying nearby.
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