Hair

Hair

Lucy sat on the sofa, looking at herself critically in the mirror. She ran her hands through her hair, which she had bow dried straight that morning, before looking over the mirror to her boyfriend George.
“Will you plait my hair?” She asked in the high voice she only employed when she was asking for something unreasonable.
“No baby. No.” George dismissed her easily, without breaking his gaze away from the TV
“Please?” Her voice got even higher.
“No.” His voice had an air of finality, but Lucy would not be deterred.
“Why?”
George let out his breath with a disgruntled, “huh!”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Please!” She demanded.
“No.” George was beginning to get cross.
“Fine!” Lucy spat back.
Silence.
Her voice had got impossibly higher, “just pretend it’s a loaf of bread.”
“No.” He sounded bored now.
“God! What if we have a daughter and I die? Then you’ll be sorry you didn’t learn how to plait my hair!”
“Jesus FUCKING Christ! Fine, I’ll plait your fucking hair then!” He roared at her.
“No, forget it, you obviously don’t want to.” A chastened Lucy mumbled.
“For God’s sake,” said George as he returned to watching the TV.
Lucy got up and went to make herself a cup of tea. “Shall we go out?” She suggested.
“No. I. Just. Want. To. Watch. The. TV.” He ground the words out from between his clenched jaw.
Lucy sighed and picked up the laptop. She opened up a new word document and quickly noted down the gist of their altercation. Then she embellished it slightly with the he saids, she saids. Five minutes later she handed the laptop over to George for him to read, eliciting a sigh of resignation as his TV viewing was yet again interrupted. Lucy watched him read, a smile playing on her lips as she saw him smile, then laugh out loud at her efforts.
“You’re a tit,” he laughed at her.

The End.