Howling at the Moon [antikvár]

ONE The day before, Michael Crumly's wife had arrived home with her thick dark hair newly shorn. Where once there had been a fat straggling animal of waves and curls there was now a new shape tamed to Susan's slender neck, brought forward in a misty fringe, with only a vague parting to suggest the way it had been before. Michael imagined the soft clumps on the hairdresser's floor, his wife's cool smile of approval and her burning amber eyes reflected in the mirror opposite. And he pictured some equally satisfied young man, having performed this service, his hands resting on Susan's shoulders, his work done. These images troubled Michael. He felt his wife should have told him what she was going to do. 'I'm sorry,' Susan said, sensitive to her husband's mute annoyance. 'You don't like it.' 'It makes you look different,' he replied, forcing a smile, looking away. 'I think it suits you. Really . . .' he lied. 'It was something I felt I wanted to do. I thought you might be pleased. It seems I was mistaken,' she said plainly. 'It will grow again, given time.' Then she removed herself to another part of their small terraced house, knowing she could not compete with her husband's silence. This was so unexpected, Michael thought. i. ! I i ¦ /' ¦'" M ;