There’s a wall of CCTV stills of men. The youngest one looks at me, eyes wide. ‘What the hell did they do?’
It’s haircut day, that quarterly standing appointment when the hairdressing twins Kelly and Hayley come to our kitchen to do my wife’s highlights, and as many additional haircuts as there are heads. My wife still has a long morning ahead of sitting around in a foil helmet talking to Kelly and Hayley about coronavirus, but my hair is already cut and I’ve got places to be.
“When I successfully replaced that rotten trellis last week,” I begin.
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