On Wednesday Meredith walked along the High Street into the fresh breeze, an autumnal breeze. She pushed a clump of hair away from her face and tucked it back in her collar. A single hair twined itself round her finger and she looked at it briefly before it fluttered away in the wind. It had faded from rich chestnut to a lighter dull corn colour and grey. ‘I don’t mind losing a few greys’, she thought.
The hair dances along the street in the breeze and then comes to rest on a jacket.
Elsewhere, a wife, raven haired and dark-eyed, with her Hispanic antecedents responsible for the volatile passion that tortured her. She was insanely jealous. Two days ago a wrong number, a female voice. Yesterday, she was sure she could smell Ghost and envisaged an opulent blonde. Today he walks in with a hair on his coat, a light corn colour, fading to grey. Not even a young woman she thinks. She grabs at the knife. Within moments he lies on the baked earthenware kitchen floor.
His mistress is not blonde, or dark, or even a she, but lies on his desk at work with cap cast aside and the colourless liquid gone.
On Thursday Meredith walked along the High Street into a lighter warmer breeze. She smiled up at the sun and ran a hand through her hair. A single hair twined itself round her finger and she grimaced. It wasn’t so good to keep losing the ones that still had their rich abundance of colour and this one was almost black….
