I was sitting behind the reception desk at my mother's salon, perusing the paper and cooling my heels until she was off, when a man came in through the door, looking attractive and distressed.

"Wendy," he complained, "you have to fix this." He pointed at his hair, which was a pleasant honeyed brown, with very soft, tasteful, pale platinum highlights.

She reached towards him, rifling with her fingers, searching with her eyes. "It looks good to me," she replied uncertainly.

"I can't keep it like this. All the guys think I look like a fairy."

"Fairy?" My mother looked confused by the term.

I tried not to laugh; he reddened.

"But it looks good!" she insisted, clearly not wanting to undo all her hard work. "Doesn't it look good, Gloria?"

I nodded; internally, I snickered. Cocksucker.

As though suddenly endowed with a psychic spark, he looked at me and groaned: "Change it back!"

My mother sighed.