She looked at her watch. She wouldn’t make it to the doctor today. Why would she have gone anyway? It was probably a good thing her heart could still beat irregularly, like it did when she was a young woman.

When Mrs Mikkelsen – still silent and red-eyed, the poor thing – removed the pins and brushed out her hair, Britta smiled amiably at her in the mirror, and said in an upbeat tone:

‘Don’t look so unhappy, my dear. Look on the bright side. You don’t have any children. If something like that happened to an old woman like me, it would be a different matter!’

She initiated a good-natured laugh which was not reciprocated.

Then she got up, relieved at being able to slip away – she would never be caught dead in here again – grabbed her purse from the counter and left a nice tip as she clasped the girl’s hand around the money in a motherly fashion. Her hand was ice cold despite the heat in the shop, and Britta let go again quickly, as if she had burned herself.

‘Thanks,’ said the hairdresser, bowing her head slightly and following her client to the door.

‘Bye, ma’am,’ she said.

And, hidden behind the curtain, she watched the lady with the foolish teenage haircut leave, while unconsciously gripping the money and balling up the ten-kroner bill.

She would have liked to have had time for a good cry, but she was alone in the salon today, and the next customer was already coming in the door.

Perpetuation