Thursday, 16 July 2009
The Pink Ribbon
Seven heads sit in the window of The Pink Ribbon, the best shop in the world. Four of them wear dated wigs and all of them bear lesions. Beneath them ponytails hang on hooks, fifty pence a piece, and a plastic fern in a plastic pot mourns beneath a pall of dust. In an advertisement for a forgotten scent a blue-bleached woman smiles at Paris. Three combs still cling to their cardboard stand. Next to the till sits an Arsenal FC annual from 1982. The sign displays a five-digit phone number. I have lived in this neck of the woods for five years or so, and The Pink Ribbon has never been open, but one night when I was wending my squiffy way home I stopped as usual to gaze at the insectoid heads of the 50s hairdryers and the endless tubs of redundant unguents and when my eyes adapted to the gloom I saw a man behind the till, staring back at me.