Sleeping Beauties [antikvár]

The sun, though weak, was warm. The beginnings of Beauty Parlour weather. The signal for women with the whey faces of winter to come creeping from their centrally-heated hibernations and begin to think about pink cheeks, bright eyes and the hope that springs eternal after a good rubdown with exfoliating cream. Tabitha, nose up, scenting the first delicious hints of post-Easter spring underlying the morning exhaust fumes, contemplated the months ahead like a pointer after prey: the Christmas turkeys, the Shrove Tuesday fry-up; the gluttony for protein where only an apple was required, all brought to a head (in many cases quite literally) by Easter and its chocolate. It was a busy time from now on. Tabitha, whose life was her Beauty Parlour, felt her heart lift as she turnéd the corner into the High Street. Not that the High Street itself presented a heart-lifting aspect but there, at the end of it, past the building societies, the Woolworths, the Victoria Wine and the banks, was the little cream-painted sign, swinging gently in the breeze, its elegant strawberry-pink lettering proclaiming the legend 'Tabitha's Beauty Parlour - an appointment not always necessary7. She screwed up her eyes to focus on it and thought that it seemed further away than usual. She refocused, relaxed her face and patted the skin of her temples as if to rearrange any temporary creases. Nonsense, she thought briskly, and hurried along. When she looked again she could make out the lettering perfectly well. All the same, the lift in her heart seemed to die a little, despite her attempt to revive it. The spring air, with its promise of burgeoning summer, is alsó a warning, Well might Sage Grandmother state that Beauty comes from within ... raising her trembling old finger to stáb the air as she insists that you will never find a Beautiful woman who is ugly inside, shaking her grizzled locks to emphasize that Beauty feeds on a sap of kindness ...