cat's bum

'show me your cat's bum,' says kapa. he's tousling my hair, scrunching in new layers, prowling round the cut with scissors. catches sight of the other hairdressers in a network of reflections. a twinkle between them.

i realise i'm stony faced in the mirror, bags under the bags under my eyes under the fluourescent lights. resisting the desire to fuss and be fussed over.

'everyone does it, when you're styling them. they can't help it,' he says. it's a trade secret. i summon a pout like i'm six years old and my little brother has tippy-toed into the lounge room wearing my leotard. kapa smiles, triumphant.

'go on then, kapa, show us yours?' says the hairdresser at left angles to me. kapa puts his chin up, tilts his head to the side and goes all marilyn monroe for a millisecond. i see it bounce off the mirrors, but mostly i get the view up his nose. then he's all shy tattoos and product again.