The Favourite

The Favourite, right, she don’t just get smiles, she hoards them, piles of the things fallen to the floor with the cuttings. I’m down there with the broom sweeping up grins and split ends, try and chuck them all in the bin quick as I can, before The Stylist gets a look in. No matter what she’s done he’s in awe - her fringe-cuts are pure works of art and the leftovers are the bits of paint that dripped off the Mona Lisa.

The Favourite isn’t The Favourite at school, where we still have to go one day a week, when we’re not at the salon. Monday, we get told this is how the world works. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, we live it like it actually is. I’m not The Favourite either at school, but at least I don’t have to follow her round with a broom.

Feels like they’ve all got it in for me. I saw her cut someone’s hair wonky the other day and they gawped like she’d done them up for the Oscars.

I’m still stuck on washing, sweeping and lattes. It’s not a big deal that they haven’t let me do a cut yet. The Stylist goes, they had one girl they didn’t let near scissors til eighteen months in. He always says if we’re not good enough, we’re gone. The qualified girls just nod and do what he says. He’s the only bloke.

All I wanted at school was to be put on hair and beauty. Honestly, you’d have thought from the teachers’ reaction I’d asked to be sent to prison.

Why are you in the corridor again? Miss would say, after I kicked off in science, and then got kicked out.

Dunno, I’d say.

Don’t need to calculate forces for hairdressing though, do you? And I’m not about to start chatting to some customer about why they think Roger goes evil in Lord of the Flies, so why read it?

I saw Miss on a night out once. All the teachers out on a Friday at The Oystercatcher. She was vaping but when she saw me, she pocketed that thing quicker than a thief with a stranger’s wallet. It was fun making them squirm til they sent me off - only course I didn’t go. I hung round the corner, listening in.

It’s so sad, Miss said, dragging on the vape (watermelon, yuck). She’s so capable, but all she wants to do is wax fannies.

Didn’t really care if she was crying her eyes out. None of them could understand, I needed to start earning for Archie.

She put me on the course in the end after I refused to go to Science for a whole week.

I had two Red Bulls before I got to the salon the first time, and the place felt like heaven. Even hung out with The Favourite, back before she got all up herself. We listened to KPop and I sat there while she got her sour-Skittles face on, talking about her rubbish stepdad.

Then I found out they weren’t gonna let me touch a pair of scissors. I showed them photos of Archie for proof I could do it. The number of times I’d got him to sit down his hyperactive bum and given him fades, lightning bolts - snipping and buzzing away while mum shouted at me not to take his ears off. The Stylist said that’s different, he can’t tell you what he likes and doesn’t like.

That’s wrong but I never said anything.

Then she became The Favourite.

She started arriving first. Always there before me, even though when it comes to school, they’re lucky if those long lashes ever make it through reception. When I asked why she was early, she just flicked her hair.

Didn’t have nothing else to do, she claimed. Right. Sure. And my mum’s going on The Real Housewives of Stoneport Docks.

She shrugged out the words like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. But for me? Impossible. I thought about Archie’s morning routine, mum’s shower time that she guards like an XL Bully. Can’t leave early, can’t get back late.

I chanced it once. Stayed after hours to get my hair done, ‘cause what’s the point if I don’t get perks? Just one of those spur-of-the-moment things. Out of nowhere, The Stylist says he’ll do it, and I’m thinking, well, can’t exactly say no to that, can I?

It was one of those days you wished he’d just go out. He was like CCTV in human form, wouldn’t leave us alone, spent all day muttering about ‘home grown talent’. Turned out he was wound up about some Turkish salon opening up down the road. But at the end of the day he just said, in front of everyone else, he’d never noticed how nice my hair was and could he cut it? I saw The Favourite giving me evils and I thought - I’ve got to.

He was so busy going on about his hairdressing awards he never paid attention to cut it like I’d asked, but I didn’t care.

Mum was fuming I hadn’t told her, even though I was only an hour late.

After that day, I thought I had a chance at being The Favourite. Why else would I sit through him banging on about meeting celebrities on Thai beaches? But the next day it was back to sweeping, tidying and teas.

The Favourite looked me up and down, said she’d never have thought I’d go for layers, like she psychically knew I hadn’t asked for them. I flicked my wouldn’t-lie-right hair and just said, I love it.

Next, I notice they leave her alone when she’s doing the hair washing. She’s allowed to greet clients, like it’s her place.

Sometimes she tells stories about where she’s been on the weekend, like she makes up lies so obvious they’re brighter than the salon’s neon sign. Said she was drinking in the airfield and ran into some pilots, who took them up in the planes. As if she’s living in one of my grand-nan’s polaroid photos. And were all born yesterday.

But The Stylist says wow, and really, and not even a sarcastic really.

Then she turns up wearing nail gems that keep catching my eye in the sun. That’s what you can splash out on when you don’t have to hand all your money over to your parents, is it?

Where'd you get them? I ask.

Little pressie from an admirer, she says, and pokes out her tongue, which looks like a dead slug. A slug with a little red heart gem - new - through it.

Ella, one of the proper hairdressers, says to me when she can't hear, don't take it to heart. Then The Stylist arrives and Ella shuts up.

I reckon she gets it, a bit. The other day we had another new girl in for a trial shift and when no one was looking, Ella just rolled her eyes at me and let her make as many coffees as she wanted. We have people in for trial shifts all the time, but they never get a follow up. The Stylist says he needs to keep his options open.

He never misses the chance to remind me I’m dangling over the edge by a single dodgy comment, like one slip of the tongue and I’ll be banished. But then, he does this other thing, that shows his kind side, deep down. Mum and Dad did a fundraiser for Archie down at The Oystercatcher - nibbles, raffle tickets, karaoke. I invited everyone from work, thought they wouldn’t bother. And he only went and showed up. Not just that - he slapped down twenty-five quid on tickets, and when his number came up and he won a bottle of Alberto Balsam shampoo mum got out of the bargain bin, he treated it like he’d won best stylist again. Left it right there on the side in the salon (made me wonder where his other trophy was). He said it was “special”. Everyone laughed. But the joke didn’t feel right. Like when you’re a kid and the adults are funny and you don’t realise til you’re older that everyone was five pints down.

One time at close he calls her name, loud as you want, tells her she’s worked like a trouper. Gives her one of those salon serums to take home. Then he calls my name. My stomach flips. But he’s standing there grinning, waving that Alberto Balsam around.

I even reached for it - how dumb is that? Thought he might actually be giving it to me. He pulled it back sharp.

No no, he goes, pride of place. And he puts it back where everyone can see, like it’s in a museum.

Life would be better as The Favourite, only just to get out of my own head. I’m here for a year and a half more. There’s obviously a reason why I’m stuck playing runner-up.

So I make it my private mission to win. Smiling at customers till my cheeks hurt. Remembering their ridiculous drinks - eight sugars, half foam - like it’s an H&M discount code. Blow-drying with as much focus as Archie watches the fairy lights. Broom in my hand before anyone’s even thought “sweep”, like some psychic cleaning ghost.

Eventually, The Stylist notices. Says I can start sectioning hair. Taking out foils. Even answering the phone. And I nod like, yeah, of course. But now I’m worried that I can’t answer phones - how ridiculous is that?

He trains me doing the foils, even though I get it after he’s only shown me one. I think he likes talking to me, even if half of it’s inappropriate stuff about the dates he’s been on. Never seen him with a woman, even though you’d think they’re queueing up outside, the way he talks.

That’s when it clicks. Early mornings, extra haircuts, gems - I get it.

I realise why she’s The Favourite.

We’re on lunch one day and there’s no one else there, so I ask her.

You got a boyfriend?

Umm. Maybe, she says, and normally I’d think, why wouldn’t you know? Except now I understand why she’s being cagey. Maybe I’m just done with all the pleases and thank yous I have to get out for the clients, but I just blurt it out.

You’re sleeping with The Stylist, aren’t you?

She looks well shocked and I feel this little rush, yeah, that I’ve actually caught her out.

How did you figure it out? she says.

It was just all the clues. I said.

Well, don’t say anything about it, she says. I’m not supposed to tell.

I knew she wasn’t some hair genius.

I feel good, because now I know there was nothing else I could have done to beat her. I had no chance of becoming The Favourite.

Although I suppose - I still have a chance.

Maybe I can get one night off Archie. Make something up, think of some reason to hang around. Another haircut, maybe…

The Stylist isn’t even that old. Middle aged, yeah, but not ancient or anything.

I know I said I’d zip my lips, but come on - me, quiet? So there I am, on break with Ella. I give her the nod, the proper slow nod, the kind that says: I know something.

And The Favourite’s right there, faffing with her little bowls of colour. Stirring away, shooting him little looks, probably guilty she’s said something. But I know. She knows I know. And now Ella’s about to know too.

Did you know they’re…?

Are they? she says, all skeptical. What, him?

That’s why she’s The Favourite, I say.

Are you sure? she asks, like I’ve gone mad.

It’s true, I say. Don’t tell anyone.

Sure, she says.

First it was just brushing past him. Tiny salon, easy to do, just a quick little touch as I went by. I saw him looking and I knew he’d noticed. My stomach flipped, like, what have I started? Thought he’d just ignore me.

So then I spin this whole tale to Mum: school’s running these special evening classes, all for the talented ones, advanced skills, bright futures, blah blah. Pure lies. I’m not half as good a liar as The Favourite, but she buys it. I say Wednesdays. I know he’ll be there.

It’s all my idea. I’ve actually plotted a thing that isn’t gonna fall apart.

I start doing my hair up to work. Nick this little sparkly clip from Claire’s - silver, sparkling, nothing much, but it flashes at me in the mirror like a signal.

You look different, says Ella. Any reason?

Nah, I say, as I sweep her spot. See The Stylist watching me. Got to look the part when you work in a salon, haven’t you? I’m way overdue for a cut.

I’ll do it, she says.

I did it last time, he pipes up. Don’t you want the same?

Yeah, I said. I can hang around on Wednesday.

Might not be here, he says. But he texts later: On for Wednesday, kissy face.

End of the day, just lamplight outside, taking home a few smiles of my own today - I see Ella’s trailing me like some undercover agent. Wait, she hisses, then palms two objects into my hands, shifty as a dealer.

First thing - the Alberto Balsam. This needs to come off the shelf, she mutters. Bin it.

Second thing - heavier, classier. The serum. The exact type he’d handed The Favourite.

You deserve this, she says. You and her both. A hundred times more. Don’t let him do your hair. Or anything else.

I jam the serum into my bag, my brain fizzing like shaken-up Coke. No one’s ever done anything like that for me - for once I’m stunned silent.

She gives me this look. See you soon, she says, and drifts off with the blow of a kiss and a wave over her shoulder.

Only - I don’t see her tomorrow. Wednesday comes, her chair stays empty.

Fired, snapped The Stylist, sharper than scissors. She won’t be coming back. But I guess you know something about what she did, don’t you?

He stares at me.

Honestly, I swear, I tell him, hands up. I didn’t know anything. Inside though, I’m already rewinding, thinking - tonight’s back on. Should’ve worn the clip. Should’ve looked like I was trying.

He was spitting bleach that day. But he says to me, you still want that haircut? Like I’ve asked him for a favour or something.

No, I say. You don’t have to.

He touches my hair. You need it though, he says.

I’m actually pleased to see Miss when she arrives.

She never visits. Once, sure, when we started. I offer her a drink but she shakes her head. Looks at The Stylist.

Sorry, sir, she says, and I know that tone is shit rolled in courtesy. I’m going to have to take these two off placement today. A school matter has come up, she says. We’ll be in touch.

The Stylist says you can't just do that - I've paid for them, they're mine today.

I can, says Miss. Goodbye. The word is a knife. Then she marches us out, no backward look.

Never seen Miss that badass.

It all unravels at school, though. Turns out accusations have been made. Serious ones, says Miss. About The Stylist.

They’re asking me questions, one after the other, prodding like I owe them an explanation. I bit my lip until it hurt, tore up the paper on the table, picked at the chewing gum. I feel my face heating up.

Knew my big mouth would get me in trouble.

You’ve just made things harder for Archie, I finally say through gritted teeth, trying for once to hold in all the things I wanted to say. I've got nothing to give him now.

You mean, says Miss, looking at me. Your parents are asking for your wages?

Yes, I say. For Archie.

Miss doesn’t say anything, and my chest feels tight, like my coat’s two sizes too small.

I’ve said something wrong, I muttered.

No, she says, still looking at me, steady. Her look is the ringing in my head after a night out.

Nothing you’ve done is wrong.

You look angry, I say.

I'm angry at the situation, she says, gentler. I am sorry we sent you there. We'll find you somewhere better, okay? You’re not in trouble, she says. Whatever happened.

She doesn’t say she’s sad this time. I can just tell. The words I overheard at The Oystercatcher came back to me, like last time, as if I am overhearing them from round a corner. They give me the same fire.

You should have realised, I say.

Yes, she says, and nodded.

***

When Danielle and I arrive at Luminous Salon, Meral - the owner - has made us drinks, and gives us something called back-lava, which sounds like it should be fiery but is super sweet, which is kind of how Meral come across.

Danielle is not The Favourite here.

Ella is our mentor.

Turns out, after she told the school about The Stylist and quit the salon, she already had a place at Luminous. Perfect timing - new salon, space for apprentices, a whole blank canvas waiting.

One break time, just me and Ella. She leans over the sofa and goes, well now you're here, I hope you don't care about being The Favourite.

And I say, of course I do.

And Ella says, raising her eyebrows, didn't you learn anything?

And I say - Ella. Didn't you? It's not about losing the ambition. It's about knowing what game you're in.

Her eyes narrow like I've got one past her.

Well that's too bad, she says finally, because I don't have favourites.

Yes you do, I say with the smallest of smirks, and this time it's me - I'm the work of art with the smiles to spare.

You do. And it's me.