‘What is it?’ Anna’s voice floated across the salon.

Paula couldn’t speak. It’s hair, just hair. It’s not your health, it’s not a death. It’s just hair, she told herself.

But it wasn’t, not really.

Anna’s gown whispered as she crowded around with the two other stylists. Paula heard a gasp, long and drawn-out, and she felt the hairdressers’ fear in their silence.

‘Is this bleach?’ asked Anna sharply, lifting a hand to pat at Paula’s hair. The look in her eyes was of sympathy mixed with horror.

Despite the two hairdressers talking in crisp tones at each other, gesturing to the dish that had been used for the deep-conditioning treatment, Paula did not ask again what had happened. She did not demand that it be put right, that she receive a refund and further complimentary treatments, or insist that she speak to the manager of the salon. There was nothing that could fix this in the here and now.

‘Just… dry it,’ she said, her voice thick.

In the mirror she watched the three women behind her exchange worried glances. She heard her own breathing accelerate. Suddenly feeling very constricted, she pulled at the neck of the gown that covered her. The Velcro peeled away and she stood up, leaving the gown on her chair.

‘Forget it,’ she said in a strange, strangled voice, and as the others watched, she hurried to the door of the salon and pushed through it.

In the corridor, she paused, one hand on the wall, and was it her imagination or were the walls closing in on her? She heard the click of heels approaching from inside the salon, and she pushed off the wall and darted through a door, up the winding stairs, feeling dizzier and fainter as she went round and up and round.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a door, large and metal, and she pushed on it and burst through. The wind, howling and bitter, made her gasp, and belatedly she realised she was out in what must be minus temperatures in a thin top with no coat. She wrapped her arms around herself and, putting her head down against the wind, made her way to the railing.

Eyes stinging, she forced her head up and looked to the sky. It was a metallic grey with dark, swollen clouds. Fat raindrops cascaded around her, stinging her skin and soaking her already wet hair.

Her hair.

She caught a fistful of it and peered sideways. It was bleach, she knew instantly. Anna had been right. That wouldn’t have been so bad had she been blonde, but the mixture had turned her glossy black hair a garish orange colour. And not all over, which might also have been a little bit better, but in splodges.