Yvonne Eve Walus

A sample of my prose

A bottle of hairstyling mousse

Every Friday, when I do my grocery shopping, I buy a bottle of hairstyling mousse. It's my only extravagance: I stay away from chocolate and bath foams and expensive shoes. But hair mousse, well, that's different. It smells of dinner dates and glamour and sex appeal.

"Good evening, ma'am," says the cashier. His teenage shoulders already bulge with exercise and testosterone. But my hair is not ready yet, so I hurry through the checkout, avoiding his eyes.

As soon as I reach the car, I fumble in the Foodtown bag, impatient like an alcoholic. I shake the bottle, hear the hiss, feel the foam like whipped cream in my palm. My rear view mirror winks approval. Time to hunt.

Outside, it's a typical July night. Normally, I head straight for the pubs. But today, the reversed letters of Farmers' neon sign on the moist pavement beckon.

I've never been in the cosmetics section before. The white-and-gold containers on the shelves hold the magic of youth. The sensuous bottles of perfume speak of foreign lands, of women who dress in diamonds, of men who await them with long-stemmed roses and volcanoes in their groins.

A desire builds up inside me. I suppress a moan. I want it all: the golden lipsticks and the smoky eye shadows, the rose-petal blushers and the creamy face powders, the vanilla scents and the sandalwood ones. An orgy of colour and fragrance. The assistant works my face like a canvas, and when she's done and I look in the mirror, I buy everything she suggests.

Eventually, I turn away from the dream factory, and that's when I see him. Tall, slender, with a bluish five-o'clock jaw. The bottles in front of him are of aftershave, thank goodness.

"You come here often?" I ask, my lipsticked mouth forming the words as though in another language.

His eyes are hot on my neck, my blouse, my skirt. His hands - I'm sure of it - long for my skin, his teeth yearn to chew my hair in ecstasy. Then, out of nowhere, comes,

"You'll have to excuse me. My wife is probably waiting with the dinner."

When the ringing in my ears stops, I take another careful look in the round makeup mirror, the magnifying side this time. I see the silver threads in my red fringe. I see the creases on the cheekbones. A harlot with wrinkles full of blusher.

I don't know how I reach K Road. My skirt is now hitched two inches, but nobody notices. I sit on a bench, next to a man who's more interested in his bottle than in me. The drizzle washes the colour from my face. One by one, I take the white-and-gold containers and smash them against the dun wall of the ex-Rendells building.

But the bottle of hair mousse I keep. Its place is at home. In the cupboard, together with all the others. A collection of unlucky charms. One for every wasted Friday night.