‘It will curl. It will curl. Mr Jeremy trust me it will curl.”
And it did.
With her curling iron in hand, all seemed possible. And all is possible, especially in a beauty salon. She thought she was bad. She though she was a bigmaist, she thought she would got to HELL for sure, but life had a habit of surprising her, distracting her, taking her away from all of that.
And then Jezza walked in the door. Hair a mess from this french monsoon that was wrecking the summer. He was plotting his next move in some ridiculous car race cum diplomatic incident in rural france. On the phone with out stopping. Jeering. Going on - motor mouthing - about himself and the Jaaaag.
It was yesterday. She fell in love with the big oaf almost instantly. It was certain then that she’d give him everything. All he had to do was say “Jaaaag” in the affected upper class off hand way one more time and she’d melt.
Keep on curling girl. Keep on curling. The old boy’s mashed up hair sure took some work. IT’s HOT in here.
And for every curl, she felt a deeper bond with this silly englishman. Curl once, curl twice, curl again and again.
But then. It came to it. She said no.
He made her feel like a bigamist.
This raw bit of quick writing comes from a writing exercise at Just Write at WestWerks where I got the following things to work with:
Who: Jeremy Clarkson
What: Ploting his next move
Why: Because she thought she was a bigamist
Where: In a beauty salon
How: With a curling iron