A skinny white guy with long platinum hair glanced at the window. His eyes flashed disgust as he clocked me, then turned back to his customer. I shoved my hand into my pocket, touching my wallet, hefted my bag, and walked in.

Vintage Daft Punk blasted from the sound system. A young woman at the reception desk looked up from her mobile, displaying a Medusa’s nest of snakes tattooed on her neck.

I said, “I’d like to get a trim.”

Medusa’s gaze flickered from me to the guy with the platinum hair. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head. The woman pursed lips glossy as pomegranate syrup and shrugged. “I’m sorry, do you have an appointment? We’re fully booked.”

I cocked my head toward the front window. “Sign says walk-ins welcome. And that looks like an empty chair over there.”

“I know, but we’re booked. Fully booked.”

As my foot tapped at the faux-marble floor, a wad of brown hair stuck to the steel tip of my cowboy boot. I bent to pluck the mouse-colored clump and held it up, peering at it intently as I raised my voice.

“Oh my god, is that what I think it is?”

Several heads swiveled to stare as I extended the hand with the offending hair, as though holding a dead rodent. A redheaded woman craned her neck, horrified.

“Todd?” The receptionist called imploringly to the platinum blonde whose mouth had become a perfect O of dismay. Before he could say a word, a woman stylist darted toward me.

“I’ll take care of this.” She touched my hand with one silvery fingernail, gesturing toward the back of the salon. “I’m Troya. Did you have something in mind?”

Half an hour later my ragged hair was a more polished version of the same, Chrissie Hynde circa 1981.

“This really makes your eyes pop,” Troya said as we regarded my reflection in the mirror.

I couldn’t imagine who would think that was a good thing. Still, I tipped her fifty pounds, making sure that Medusa and Todd got an eyeful.

“Where’s the ladies’?” I asked.

Troya pointed toward the back of the room. As I headed there, I passed a counter crowded with hair products and noted a Mulberry bag gaping open to display its contents. Wallet, cosmetics bag, hairbrush, an iPad mini. In the restroom I splashed some water on my face and swallowed another Vyvanse. I only had a few left, medicinal speed similar to Ritalin. Not much kick but better than nothing. On my way back out, I nicked the cosmetics case from the Mulberry handbag, dropped it into my satchel, and headed onto the street.

A few doors down was a high-end boutique where I dropped a wad on a black cashmere hoodie and slouchy black leather bag soft as a baby’s instep. Next: Tesco, where I bought a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.