by Anna Wilson
Tallulah reeled somewhat under the weight of Raphael’s hand. ‘Yes, er, quite all right, thank you,’ she said.
Dash watched her closely and glanced at Smug too. He was certain he saw the little pug shake his head firmly as if warning Tallulah to say no more.
Everyone shuffled and waited for someone else to speak. An atmosphere of awkwardness had descended on the company like a chilly morning mist.
‘So,’ said the postie, finally breaking the silence, ‘has any o’ you had a go at this new machine yet?’
‘Mrs Fudge volunteered,’ said Dash, ‘but it seems that she is not the sort of model we are looking for.’ He shot a steely-eyed look at Smug, who made a big show of settling his spectacles back on to his tiny nose and washing his front paws.
‘Will you let me try it?’ asked Raphael, his eyes shining. ‘I has been tinkin’ that I is needin’ a new look, Mrs Fudge darlin’. Maybe now is de time!’ He rubbed his hands together.
‘I am sure we could come up with something suitable,’ said Smug smoothly.
Raphael whirled around. He peered at the two dogs. ‘Dash, is you teasin’ me? Pretendin’ to speak for this cute li’l fella here?’ he said, pointing at Smug.
‘Ah, thank you for the compliment,’ said Smug. He lowered his head in a modest manner.
‘Goodness to mercy, I is goin’ crazy!’ Raphael cried.
‘No, no, you’re not,’ said Pippa.
‘This is fascinating,’ murmured Tallulah. ‘Another human who can understand Smug. What an intriguing place this town is turning out to be . . .’
Pippa drew herself up tall, and putting on her most important-sounding tone of voice she said, ‘Tally says only special people can understand Smug. And we must be special because we can understand Dash,’ she said.
‘Humpf!’ said Dash. ‘Why can’t you understand all the other dogs around here then?’
Tallulah cleared her throat. ‘It may have something to do with the fact that the other canines have nothing interesting to say.’
Dash lowered his head in the doggy equivalent of a blush. ‘Oh, er. Yes, that is rather likely,’ he mumbled.
‘Well!’ said Raphael. He looked from pug to dachshund and then back to the machine. ‘What a day dis is turnin’ out to be!’
‘So it is,’ said Smug impatiently. ‘Now, shall we proceed with the demonstration?’
Raphael carefully lowered himself into the twirly-whirly chair. This was tricky because of his long legs and his rollerblades. The postie had to fold himself up like an umbrella to fit in under the machine as it hung low over the seat.
Smug waited until Raphael was comfortable. Then he said, ‘What will it be today, sir?’
‘Oh, I tink jus’ a trim,’ said Raphael, sounding distinctly more nervous now that he was in the chair.
The pug nodded to Tallulah, who turned a few wheels, flicked some levers and pressed a green button. Then Tallulah lowered the visor over Raphael’s face (‘To stop bits of hair flying into your mouth and eyes,’ she explained) and pressed a large red button. Immediately two white-gloved hands sprang out from little doors in the sides of the machine. One hand picked up a loop of Raphael’s black hair and the other whipped out some scissors from another small door. Then SNIP-SNIP-SNIPPETY-SNIP! The hands went into a whirlwind of activity, chopping and trimming and clipping away.
Pippa’s stomach did a backflip as she watched the scissors slice through Raphael’s hair. I do hope this machine knows what it is doing, she thought.
Raphael’s face meanwhile had gone from nervous to uneasy through to downright scared as he saw great long strands of his own hair flying through the air.
‘I – I tink that be enough for me today,’ he cried out, his eyes wide.
Tallulah stepped forward and pressed a yellow button and the hands froze in mid-air. The whizzing and whirring noises stopped as well. Then, quick as a bolt of lightning, the gloved hands zipped back into the doors in the side of the machine.
Raphael struggled out of the seat and glanced anxiously at himself in the mirror. He smoothed his hands over his scalp as he took in his reflection.
It was fair to say that a new look had been achieved. His hair was short and spiky and there was a magnificently inscribed letter ‘r’ shaved into the back of his scalp. Pippa held up a hand mirror so that Raphael could inspect himself from all angles.
The salon was deathly quiet. Even Muffles did not stir, purr or twitch a whisker.
Please let him be happy! Pippa prayed, her fingers crossed behind her back.
‘Well!’ said Raphael finally.
He stepped back, gave a slow twirl on his rollerblades, then stood looking at himself again. A smile crept into the corners of his mouth. Then he smacked his thigh and boomed, ‘I is lookin’ goooooood!’ His mouth stretched into the widest of smiles. ‘I is lookin’ handsome, man!’ he added.
Everyone let out the breath they had been holding and there was a scattering of anxious laughter.
‘Yeah!’ Raphael continued, with a little pirouette of joy. ‘You, Miss Tallulah and Mr Smug Pug, are de business, with your mar-vell-ous in-ven-tion! Mrs Fudge, they has read my mind! I would not have been able to describe exactly what I wanted for me new look, but the machine has got it right. Almost as though it has read me mind!’
‘How interesting . . .’ began Tallulah.
‘Ahem!’ Smug coughed loudly. ‘I am pleased.’
‘Not as pleased as me, man! I is very, very happy. I tink you has found your new pair o’ hands, Mrs F.’
Pippa cheered and gave Raphael a high-five while Mrs Fudge congratulated Smug and Tallulah. ‘Genius!’ she said. ‘Absolute genius!’
Only Dash could be heard to mutter in disgust, ‘But you don’t look like Raphael any more! And I would hardly call that “just a trim”. What would your lady customers say to such a drastic restyle, Mrs Fudge? Have you thought of that?’
No one was listening though.
Raphael was so thrilled with his new look that he declared he would help to advertise the incredible hairstyling machine.
‘I will speed off t’rough de town right away, me darlin’s!’ he cried, looking at himself this way and that in the mirror. ‘You know how the Crumblies like me to keep them posted! Well, that’s what I’ll do! You will have de whole town clamouring at the door to try out this ting, Mrs Fudge!’
‘Yes, well, I’m not sure I need even more customers, Raphael dear,’ said Mrs Fudge cautiously. ‘And don’t forget I have all the dogs to look after as well.’
‘But that’s just the point, madam,’ said Smug, ‘if you’ll pardon me for butting in. Now that you have the machine, you can take on as many customers as you like. And,’ he added, ‘you will be rich beyond your wildest dreams.’
11
Marble Gets the Foghorn Treatment
Raphael was true to his word. Within the hour, the phone (which Pippa had remembered to plug back in) was ringing off the hook.
‘Of course the first person to book was Marble,’ said Pippa, rolling her eyes. ‘How does she manage to always be at the front of any queue?’
‘Who is Marble?’ asked Smug.
‘Marble Wainwright,’ said Mrs Fudge. ‘She’s – how should I put it . . . ?’
‘Our grumpiest client,’ Dash said, with some relish. ‘She is extremely difficult to please. In fact, I do not think anyone has ever managed to please Marble. It’s not all fun and games here, you see, Smug,’ he added. ‘Some of our customers are distinctly tricky, and it takes an experienced hand to know how to deal with them.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about us,’ said Smug. ‘We are used to dealing with tricky people. Do you remember the time we delivered the lawn-cutting machine to that old major-general in Little Snitting on the Wold?’ he said, turning to Tallulah.
‘Oh my goodness!’ squealed Tallulah. ‘Do I ever!’ She burst into giggles at the memory.
‘He was—!’
‘Wasn’t he!’
&n
bsp; Dash coughed loudly. ‘I’m sorry to break up your cosy little reminiscences,’ he said, ‘but I think we should be tidying this place up before Marble and the others arrive, don’t you?’ He shot a glance at the wires, flexes and plugs, towels, bottles and pots of lotions that were strewn around the salon.
‘Oh goodness, yes,’ said Mrs Fudge. She looked flustered.
But – DRIIIINNNG!
‘Oh no, Marble’s here already!’ cried Pippa. She sped round the salon gathering up armfuls of towels and chucking them at Tallulah, who merely whirled around on the spot shouting uselessly, ‘What do I do with these?’
Dash raised his eyes to the heavens and gave a small snort (which if he had been a human, would have come out as a sort of tutting noise).
Smug cried, ‘Over here, Tally. Quick, stow them behind the counter.’
Mrs Fudge was hurriedly pushing hairdryers and straighteners into the nearest drawer, and Pippa meanwhile had grabbed a broom and was sweeping the bottles of shampoo, conditioner and hair dye into a corner.
DRIIIINNNNGG! DRIIIIIIIIINNNNNGG!
Pippa took a running leap over the two dogs and skittered out of the salon to reach Marble before she could press the bell again. She flung the door open and the grumpy old woman pushed straight past Pippa, throwing her ugly black tea-cosy hat and her lumpy sack of a coat at Tallulah, who was right behind her.
‘Hello, Marble,’ said Pippa. She stood with her hands on her hips, challenging Marble to look her in the eye and be polite.
Marble sniffed and grunted, ‘At last. What did you keep me waiting for? I hope old Semolina is ready for us. We haven’t got time to hang about.’ And with that she marched off, dragging her little Welsh terrier, Snooks, behind her.
‘Goodness me, what an exceptionally discourteous woman,’ said Tallulah. ‘Not very polite,’ she explained, when Pippa looked at her quizzically.
‘Oh. Yes. Well, that’s Marble,’ said Pippa. ‘If she had a family motto it would be “Why be polite and nice if you can be rude and horrible?”’ She pulled a face. ‘But her dog, Snooks, is totally cute,’ she added.
‘I noticed,’ said Tallulah, as she followed Marble’s big wobbly bottom down the hallway and into the salon.
‘Oh my lawks!’ cried Marble, as she stood in the doorway with an expression of terror on her face. ‘What on earth is that horrible robot doing in the middle of your salon, Mrs Fudge?’
‘You may well ask,’ said Dash. (But of course Marble could not understand him.)
Mrs Fudge gave him a stern look, then came bustling over from behind the counter, where she had been checking through her list of appointments. ‘Marble, dear! How are you today?’
‘I’m not so good, as it happens. I’ve got a chill and an ache and I can’t tell you about my legs. But I feel even so much more worse now that I’ve clapped eyes on that monster!’ she wailed.
Mrs Fudge laid a soothing hand on her customer’s arm. ‘Marble, this “monster”, as you put it, is far from horrible. This is the machine that Raphael has been telling everyone about – the one you wanted to see! And I can assure you it is the most marvellous invention. It is going to change the face of hairdressing forever.’
‘I don’t want to change my face,’ Marble whimpered.
‘Are you sure?’ muttered Tallulah, catching Pippa’s eye and setting them both off into a prolonged bout of silent laughter.
Mrs Fudge looked at them from over the top of her half-moon spectacles and said, ‘Girls, why don’t you make a fresh pot of tea while I get Marble and Snooks settled?’
‘But it doesn’t take two of us to—’ Pippa squeaked, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
‘I think it might. Just this once,’ insisted Mrs Fudge.
Pippa glanced at Tallulah and shrugged helplessly and the pair did as they were told. ‘She always does this when she wants to get rid of me,’ Pippa grumbled.
When they came back in Marble was in the chair with the Foghorns’ machine in place over her head.
‘I wonder how she persuaded the old trout to try it,’ Tallulah whispered.
‘Oh, Marble doesn’t like to miss out on anything,’ Pippa told her. ‘I expect Mrs Fudge told her that everyone in Crumbly-under-Edge was desperate to have their hair done with it, and that if she did not want her appointment, there were a lot of other people who would gladly take her place.’
‘So, what are you after today, Marble?’ asked Mrs Fudge. She always rather dreaded Marble coming in, because the dumpy woman always expected Mrs Fudge to make her look like a supermodel.
‘I should like my hair to be very long, very straight, and very, very blonde,’ Marble snapped. ‘Like that terribly elegant Italian fashion-designer person,’ she added. ‘Whatshername, y’know, Donatella Panettone.’
Mrs Fudge said slowly, ‘All right.’
‘Errr-raaoow!’ commented Muffles, which was the closest she ever came to a snigger.
And snigger she might, for Marble’s hair was the very opposite of what she had asked for: extremely short, very curly and very, very black (because the last time she had come for an appointment, that is what she had asked for).
‘The thing is, Marble dear,’ Mrs Fudge began carefully, ‘I am not sure that even the machine can manage that in a half-hour appointment. It would involve putting hair extensions in. You’ll need a few hours to achieve that look.’
‘Hours?’ Marble gasped in outrage. ‘I haven’t got hours. I thought this machine was supposed to be super-speedy. And anyway, I think it’s very rude to imply that it would take hours to make me look lovely.’
‘Hmm,’ muttered Pippa. ‘More like days or weeks.’
‘Or even millennia,’ remarked Smug.
‘Certainly years,’ squeaked Pippa.
‘That’s what Smug meant,’ said Tallulah, giggling.
‘What’s that?’ snapped Marble, turning to shoot a dirty look in the girls’ direction.
‘Pippa said it would be a shame to cover your lovely ears,’ said Tallulah, choking on her laughter.
‘Marble, I did not mean to offend you,’ said Mrs Fudge in a soothing voice. ‘Let’s do a little experiment, shall we? I’ll programme the machine to see what it can do, and if the result isn’t what you wanted, I’ll book you in for a restyling tomorrow, free of charge. How does that sound?’
Now Marble was always one for a bargain. She was a meanie and could not resist anything that was free. So that did it.
‘It will do, I suppose,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Well, get a move on, can’t you? I haven’t got all day.’
So Mrs Fudge bent down and very quietly and swiftly consulted Smug. Then, coming back to the machine, she muttered to herself, ‘Red button, blue lever, green switch,’ and pressed and flicked and clicked and . . .
WHOOSH! The machine surged into life; the white-gloved hands popped out of the little doors, flexing their robotic muscles and wiggling their mechanical fingers. Then one of them whisked out a small, unnoticed drawer from the side of the machine. The drawer was full of golden blonde tresses, which the hand delved into. Both hands proceeded to go into overdrive, plaiting and tweaking and stretching and knotting and weaving. They moved so fast over Marble’s head that you could not make out what they were doing. Everyone, most of all Mrs Fudge, hoped that they were doing exactly what Marble wanted. For if Marble was not satisfied with the results, the news would be around the whole of Crumbly-under-Edge in a matter of hours, and then no one would ever come to Chop ’n’ Chat again.
Then as suddenly as they had begun, the hands stopped their frenzied attack on Marble’s head. They shot into the air as though to salute the horrible old woman’s reflection, and then quick as a flash they zoomed back into the little doors and snapped out of sight.
Mrs Fudge and Pippa could not quite see the results of the makeover as the machine was close up to the mirror and Marble was leaning forward too, making heavy breathing noises through her nose like an outsized whistling kettle.
‘Well!’ she exclaimed finally.
‘What do you – what do you think, Marble?’ Mrs Fudge ventured.
There was a long pause in which every tick of the clock and every gentle purr from the now sleeping Muffles could be heard.
Then, ‘Ahem,’ said Marble. She paused. ‘I have to say, I am . . . hmmm . . .’ she paused again. She twisted her tight little lips. (No one could tell what that facial expression meant. It could have been a frown of concentration; it could have been a grimace of disgust. Potatoey faces such as Marble’s are so difficult to read.)
She pushed back the visor and began awkwardly to extract herself from the chair. Pippa rushed to help, pulling the machine back so that Marble could hop down.
The vision that met everyone’s eyes was astounding.
Marble looked beautiful!
She had a full head of the most gleamingly blonde locks you have ever seen. They shone like spun gold, as though fairies had made it from gossamer or whatever fairies would use to make blonde hair with. But it wasn’t so much the hair that knocked the breath out of everyone. For somehow, in that instant of lifting the visor, Marble’s face had undergone a magnificent change. It was glowing rather than trout-like, and her nose was now buttony rather than potatoey. Her tiny currant-ish eyes were gleaming like bright jewels and her normally puckered mouth was wider and shinier and turned up at the corners as if she was—
‘Smiling? . . . Are you – are you really smiling, Marble?’ stammered Mrs Fudge.
‘I do believe I am!’ said Marble, in a twinkly voice.
That’s what’s so different about her, thought Pippa. It’s not the hair at all. It’s the fact that Marble Wainwright is smiling!
