The God of Small Things

Anjali arrived at the salon ten minutes early and found Meenal in the chair under the window, a black cape fastened at her throat.

"I thought you two were together," the stylist said. She had already wet one side of Meenal's hair.

Meenal turned. "Anjali. I said your name first. I thought the appointment was mine."

Anjali looked at the reception book, where both their first names appeared on the same line in different handwriting. The stylist held a comb in the air.

"Mine was at three," Anjali said.

"Mine too," Meenal said. "I have an interview after this. Could I just—"

"Of course," Anjali said, before the stylist could ask anything else.

There were two empty chairs by the magazines. Anjali took the one beside a woman having foil folded into her hair. The woman looked from Meenal to Anjali.

"School friends?" she said.

"A long time ago," Meenal said through the cape.

The woman asked where. Meenal named the school. Anjali said, "Yes," and picked up a magazine about kitchens. On the next page there was a photograph of a sink bigger than her bathroom. She turned it over.

Meenal asked for the ends. The stylist began cutting above them.

"Is that shorter than you wanted?" the woman asked.

"It's fine," Meenal said, watching the floor.

The dryer roared. Anjali read the same paragraph three times and then went to the counter for water. When she came back, Meenal was paying, one hand pressed to the back of her neck.

"Good luck," Anjali said.

Meenal looked as though she might say something, then nodded and left. The doorbell gave its small electronic chime behind her.

The stylist called Anjali over and fastened the cape around her.

"Same cut?" the stylist asked.

Anjali looked at the mirror. "No. Just the ends."