It’s Saturday, and I’m parked outside the tube station, waiting for my sister, who’s been in Poland for a week and is spending one night with us before flying back to Boston. I can see her in my rearview mirror, standing on the pavement next to a wheelie suitcase the size of a fridge. She is looking in every direction but mine.
Finally, a gap in the passing traffic presents itself – just long enough for me to open my door, stand up and shout. My sister rolls over and heaves the suitcase into the back.
“The weather’s turned,” I say.
“I can see,” she says.
“But it’s also haircut day,” I say.
“It is?” she says.
I’m referring to our standing quarterly appointment with hairdressing twins Kelly and Hayley, who come to the house and attend to the heads of whoever is around for a job-lot price.
When we get back, haircut day is in full swing: my wife’s highlights are being done, while the middle one sits in Kelly’s chair with a towel around his neck. I go upstairs to wake the youngest one. I send the oldest one a text that says, “Your aunt is here, and it’s haircut day.” Then I sit down with my sister on the sofa, with a magazine apiece.
“It’s just like being at a real salon,” I say.
“Dude,” my sister says, “is there any reason we’re not drinking?”
“Not really,” I say. “Just decorum, I guess.”
“I’m on vacation,” she says.
“Fair enough,” I say.
We walk down the road to buy beer and crisps and nuts. My sister gets into a long discussion about sparkling wines with the man at the shop, while I stare at labels.
By the time we return, the youngest one is in Kelly’s chair and my wife’s head is a towering helmet of foil flaps. The oldest one is still not answering my texts. My sister fills glasses with a cava she has been led to believe punches above its weight. The air holds an autumnal freshness, even though there is allegedly another month of summer to come. We raises our glasses: to haircut day.
The youngest one stands up and rubs the back of his head.
“Who’s next?” Kelly asks.
“Him,” my wife says, pointing at me.
“I had it done not that long ago,” I say, sitting down in the chair anyway. “It was an emergency.”
“Where was this?” Kelly says.
“Somewhere round here,” I say. “They appeared to specialise in portraits of loved ones shaved into the scalp.”
“Just make him look less bald,” my wife says.
“Don’t be rude,” Kelly says.
“At least he’s not grey,” Hayley says, applying another flap.
Because I was so recently shorn, my haircut doesn’t take long. I get up and stand by the open back door, feeling the cool wind on my neck.
“Anybody else?” Kelly says. All eyes falls on my sister, sitting on the sofa with a glass of cava.
“What?” she says. “Me?”
“It’s haircut day,” I say.
She frowns, shrugs, and sits in the chair.
An hour later, Kelly and Hayley depart in a taxi. The youngest one gets ready for his shift at the pub. After a brief discussion about what the hell became of lunch, the rest of us follow him down there.
The last time we went to the pub as a family, the youngest one’s colleagues made us feel welcome by putting out a little specials chalkboard on which the words “I banged [youngest’s first name]’s mum” were scrawled. My wife posted a picture of it on Instagram. This time, the same specials board has a message about the youngest one’s aunt, which is frankly unprintable. My sister poses proudly with it for photographs. We order drinks and food, and take a table outside, under the sun and out of the wind.
“I miss the heatwave,” I say.
“I don’t,” my wife says.
Suddenly, by way of response to several unanswered texts, the oldest one turns up. “Hey,” he says, sitting down to roll a fag. We stare at the top of his head until he looks up.
“What?” he says.
“You missed haircut day,” I say. “And it shows.”
