Waiting Room by Chloe Brooks
“But you don’t like corned beef.” “No, I don’t like corned beef. What kind of an Irish girl am I?” She pats her coppery pompadour with one wrinkled, crimson-nailed hand. “You should get a dark wig,” he tells her. “A dark wig?” “Yep. I think you should get a dark wig.” He pushes his bifocals up his liver-spotted nose, and his silver eyebrows pucker slightly. “Like in that show, The Americans.” “Hmm?” “Remember, she went through all her disguises?” she prompts, scooting forward in her purple plush chair and angling her legs toward him. “Blond, brunette, redhead?” He thinks for a moment. “Yep, I bet she had a lot of wigs.” “I bet she did.” “But it stayed on when he pulled her down,” he says, thoughtfully. “What?” “Remember when he pulled her down and banged up her knee?” “No, that wasn’t the wife,” she corrects him. “She had the disguises. He banged up the knee on the girl he was in love with 20 years ago. Remember?” “That’s right,” he nods. “What I don’t understand is,” she says, and her voice drops to a whisper, “what I don’t understand is if you lose all your hair, how do you keep the wig on? Do you glue it?” “Well, I would think it would be easier,” he says slowly. “I had wigs in the Seventies that were real hair, but she told me they’ve come a long way since then,” she says with growing agitation. “But they were loose. They were a loose-weave net and what you would do is take a bobby pin and stick it through the netting and into your hair and that’s how you held the wig on. But if you’ve got no hair, you’ve got no bobby pins!” “Screws.” “Screws?” He shrugs. “Ask them.” “Well I’m going to.”
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