Chapter 11 – Girl Talk

Two females, one near infinitely old and naïve as a babe, the other still in her youth but with all the cynical wisdom growing up in Ankh-Morpork could provide, chatted amiably as they walked side by side from the Body Street bakery to Lower Broadway.

"Where shall we go first?" Asked Myria.

Jessica was thoughtful. "Hmm... What are you in the mood for?"

Myria frowned. "Mood?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Jon said I would experience a 'girls-day-out'."

"Right. But what exactly do you want to do?"

There was a long silence. The look on Myria's face said that this was one of the difficult questions, right up there with 'the meaning of life' and 'why humans find mimes entertaining'.

Jessica came to her rescue. "All right, maybe I should make some suggestions then. You wanted a hair styling, right? And some clothes?" Jessica appraised Myria critically and clicked her tongue. "And we should get your nails done. I've always wanted a professional manicure. Ooo even a pedicure! How about a facial? And makeup!" She was warming to the task now, and getting excited at the prospects.

Myria's eyebrows went up, and her brow furrowed. "And I will enjoy these things? These are things you enjoy? Do I need clothing as well?"

"Well, I've never been able to afford this kind of treatment, savvy? So maybe I'm going a bit overboard on the pampering." Another scan of Myria's appearance. "But we do have to get something a little more… colorful. And some shoes!" Myria actually stepped back at the glow in Jessica's eyes. "Shoes! I saw some to absolutely die for at-"

Jessica jumped and turned at Myria's gasp, replayed the conversation back a few seconds. "Oh good grief Myria, that's a figure of speech. I guess you've never heard music with rocks in, huh?" She frowned. "Say, Morporkian must not be your first language. But why don't you have an accent?"

"I, correct, I learned Morporkian when I was very ne- young. It is like my first language, yes correct. But, yes, I did not use it very much. I am still learning." Myria practically beamed at her response. She had not actually lied at all. She found she did not want to lie to Jessica. It felt…wrong. "And what is music with rocks in? And what does it have to do with language?"

"Oh. Well I had a… friend who was totally into it and I picked up some of the slang. I don't use it around Jon and my parents because they say it causes headaches. But regardless, we can't do all of that today." Jessica bounced on her toes. "But still, this is going to be almost as much fun as if I were doing it myself! Pure octarine, Djelibabe!"

Myria's brows came together. "But surely you will be with me? And that was more slang?"

"Got it in one! And yes I'm with you, but I thought I would just escort you and y'know offer suggestions."

Before Myria could respond, a hire-coach neared, and Jessica wave it down. The coachman dismounted and held the door for them, which was a bit out of Jessica's realm of experience. She chalked it up to Myria's presence. "Regardless, back to the question of where are we going to go first. Let's see, if you have your face done first, it may get messed up when they do your hair, so hair first. And I bet if we do your hair first, we'll have better luck with the clothes too since you'll look even more stunning than usual and of course after your hair is done, you'll feel better too! And let's do the clothes last because by that time you'll be completely immersed in pampering and this is so great I just know we're going to have a smokin' time!" Jessica finally paused for a breath, and smiled at Myria.

Somewhere in the whirlwind of words, Myria suspected Jessica had actually made a decision for them both and hazarded a response. "Yes?"

That seemed to be the appropriate answer. "Great! Driver! Take us to a posh hair salon.

"Er, which one Miss?" The driver called over his shoulder.

"I have no idea! Isn't it just dragonsfire[1]? It's like baking without a recipe!"

Because of Jessica's rather vague instructions, the driver had to stop a few times and confer with other coaches, but eventually the coach worked its way up Scoone Avenue, Pallant Street, and thus to Madam Bouff's Haute Coiffure on Spa Lane. The coachman assured them it was very exclusive, though he of course had never had personal experience with so much as the waiting lounge.

As they stepped down, Myria had a thought. "Jessica, should we keep the coach available?"

Jessica looked thoughtful. "Can we even do that? Hmm… here driver, what's your name?"

"Jackstone, Miss."

"Perfect. Driver Jackstone, could we have you for the day?"

"I beg your pardon miss?"

Myria got the idea and explained. "Driver, we wish to retain your services for the day. Is this possible?"

Jackstone was surprised. "Well miss, usually there are other types of coaches for that sort o' thing. I wouldn't know what to charge."

Ah, estimating cost of services? Child's play for someone born of an Auditor. "Of course. Remuneration." She rubbed her mental hands together. "Considering you charged eleven pence for a trip of 15 minutes for two passengers. Yes. We must add in travel time to and from fares, account for waiting on fares?" She paused. The coachman looked confused.

"She is asking you for information I think." Prompted Jessica.

"Er, o' course." Jackstone took off his hat, scratched his head and provided the requested answer.

"Correct." Continued Myria. "And we consider breaks for meals." Her stomach protested at that, and she coughed. "Which should not be compensated. Yes correct and subtracting prorata depreciation for the coach based on typical wear. And of course foo-" Another growl and cough. "correct, sustenance for the animals."

There was another pause as he considered, and gave his best guess for each of these.

"Very well. The appropriate rate, which you should be paid for eight hours of exclusive service, is one dollar A-M.

"But, Miss, that's more than I normally earns in a day. Sometimes I has to wait longer for fares y'see."

Jessica tapped a tooth thoughtfully. "Myria, we seem to have that rarest of finds, an honest man." She arched an eyebrow. "I think he is right. A dollar is the wrong amount. We should pay him one dollar 50 pence.

It was hard to tell who was more surprised, Jackstone or Myria.

But that does not make sense, Myria thought to herself but did not voice. Jessica's assertion confused her, but she was learning not to voice every thought, though it was difficult to resist. She compensated by having a conversation with herself while Jessica smiled enigmatically. In the end, she reached the conclusion that it still made no sense at all, but that she would trust Jessica's judgment.

Madame Bouff's Haute Coiffure was indeed posh. It was the epitome of posh. In fact, it was so posh that many of its clients had no use for its services at all. The salon itself was designed to emphasize its social status. The waiting lounge was decorated and furnished similar to that of a high society estate, reminiscent of a very feminine version of the exclusive Fidget's Gentlemen's Club. In many ways, this is exactly what it was. Ladies would come hours prior to their actual appointment, secure in the knowledge that they would not, in fact, be seated until several hours after the reserved time. One could, therefore, ask why anyone bothered to make an appointment at all, which is a question asked by visitors to salons and dental offices throughout the universe. However in this case the answer was quite obvious, and also explained why many of those seated throughout the lounge discussing the latest doings down their noses had in fact no appointment at all and did not want one thank you very much I have my own servants for that at home.

Instead, merely being seen to frequent the waiting lounge assured one of one's place in society. The only ones who didn't partake of this particular ritual were those who either had so much money they couldn't be bothered, or who simply didn't care one way or another. The former would spend their time in their own personal parlours like the proverbial spiders, waiting for the rest of high society to come be seen with them. The latter, which likely included such noteworthies as Lady Sybil Ramkin (who had little hair left to style regardless) had other priorities.

This world was as alien to Jessica as it was to Myria, which point was driven home when they entered the building. The first indication was the silence that washed across the room as they presented themselves before the reception desk. The second indication was the hairstyles themselves. It was practically impossible to tell which clients were pre- and which were post-appointment. All of the hairstyles seemed to share remarkable characteristics, that of defying all reason with respect to volume, all gravity with respect to height, and all taste thrown in for good measure.

Finally, there was the woman behind the reception desk, who was endeavoring to look at them with both nostrils at once while at the same time radiating the disapproval of one who had decided, within 0.001 seconds of you crossing the threshold, that there would in fact be absolutely no appointments available before sometime in the year of the frozen wahoonie.

As a result, it was less than fifteen minutes later, when Myria and Jessica found themselves back outside Madame Bouff's Haute Coiffure or, as Jessica had christened it, Madame Snob's House of Nobs.

"That was rather unpleasant."

"Do you think? What a patrician[2]! She acted like you were privileged to even walk through the door! And the look on her face when I asked whether an appointment was necessary! I thought her hair would catch afire!"

"I do not believe that would be possible. I am sure the ignition temperature would be much higher than her body could withstand."

Jessica watched her carefully. "Really?"

Yes. Even accounting for the copious amounts of inflammable chemicals which were added to it."

"Ah. Y-yes. Well I still say she was two bananas away from going absolutely librarian on us."

"Librarian?"

"Sorry, more slang. They say the librarian at the wizards university is some sort of monkey."[3]

"I see. Regardless, is this how hu-people of status behave in Ankh-Morpork? I am not sure I can master it appropriately."

"Well, you understand I really don't move in those circles, but honestly that is not what I expected. I guessed they would be more, well, friendly toward you."

"I do not believe they were friendly. I did not like the way the expressions on the ones named as Lady Fardsworth and Lady Stippley when they looked at us. It was… unpleasant."

"How'd you know their names?"

"I read them, they were in the appointment book."

"But, it was upside down and she closed it as soon as you admitted you didn't have an appointment!"

"I am… a very good… reader?"

"Myria, you are just full of surprises."

"Jessica, that is incontrovertible."

Jessica's face took on a somewhat pained expression.

"I am sorry, Jessica, I was agreeing with you." I shall have to adjust my language to the person I am with, Myria realized. It was like being a different person with different humans, something she had not considered before. And it seemed to go both ways. She had not heard Jessica use the 'music with rocks' slang with Jon earlier.

"Ah, well then. Um. Shall we ask our coachman for another idea?"

First however, they were forced to suffer through several minutes of apologies from the coachman. Both Myria and Jessica tried to reassure him that they did not expect him to know the internal machinations of Ankh-Morpork's most exclusive hair salon, and that they still wished his services. That drama finally diffused, with a few more inquiries they found themselves at a significantly less posh, though still respectable, establishment several blocks away on Water Street.

An hour later, they made a very different exit than they had from Madame Boo's House of Insults.

Myria had experienced only one moment of panic inside, when the 'stylist' as she called herself had pulled out the scissors. Myria understood, in a vague way, that humans periodically trimmed excess portions of themselves, but there was still something worrisome about it. She had felt diminished somehow, and had gazed sorrowfully at the bits of her on the floor until the stylist had led her to the shampooing basin, at which point pleasure had banished all concerns. Jessica had demurred when Myria suggested she have hers done as well, claiming she really didn't need it cut and a fancy style would not last at the bakery.

Now, Myria was practically glowing. Her hair, which before had been verging on the untamed, had received the aforementioned cutting, and then had been braided and fastened in a bun. There were still some tresses loose around her forehead and sides of her face, which had been curled into soft tendrils.

"That was exquisite! That was pampering?"

"That, Myria, was just the beginning of pampering."

"How is it that simply allowing someone else to do what one would normally do oneself could be so… relaxing and pleasant? I even feel more human!"

Jessica seemed not to catch the comment, or to interpret it differently. "Yes, it does that. I remember when one of my cousins would do our hair. It was fantastic."

"Interesting. And does this style seem appropriate for me?"

"Myria, your hair looks smokin'." Myria managed to not interpret that literally with some mental gymnastics. "Now we need to do something about your makeup!"

They spent another moment musing on the vagaries of hair fashions and high society, before the shop next door caught Jessica's attention.

"Zorgo's Retrophrenology Clinic – Now with Two Locations to Better Serve You? What is retrophrenology?"

Myria considered. "I believe that phrenology would be the prediction of traits or abilities based on the topography of the cranial bones. It follows then that retrophrenology must be the reverse."

"Um, can you repeat that?"

"I am sorry Jessica. To say it more simply, I believe Mister Zorgo creates skull topography in his patients in order to induce particular traits or skills.

"But, but that's totally bursar. You can't determine someone's personality just by changing the shape of their body!"

Myria chewed the corner of her lower lip. "I believe in that, Jessica, you are most certainly mistaken. It is amazing how much form can shape ability and… personality. Yes I think it quite reasonable. I would be tempted to explore this in more detail."

"Hmph. I still don't believe it. And we really don't have time. And besides," she gave a crooked smile, "we just had our hair done. Wouldn't want to mess up our hair trying to adjust our heads, would we?"

"I suppose not. Still, it would be interesting to see the result. I shall have to return and discuss the procedure at a later time."

At which point, there was a hollow thonk, and a few moments afterward a man staggered out of the clinic with rather large lump developing on his expansive cranium. He peered at them as he swayed slightly. Well, one of his eyes peered at them. The other eye seemed to be on some sort of holiday and was reviewing various sights up and down Water Street. Periodically it would try to do something useful like keeping watch for attacks by diving birds of prey, followed by a scan for rabid moles.

"'Markable that. Quite 'markable. Feel mo' n'tellgent l'ready." Whereupon he rotated and wove his way down Water Street toward the Ahkh.

"And upon further evidence," Myria finished, "I suspect it would not be advisable."

"Right. Here, let's go get your face and nails taken care of before you do something we'll both regret."

[1] Dragonsfire (n) MWRI slang - Like "the bomb" but with more back-blast and less bits to pick up afterward.

MWRI (Music With Rocks In) slang is more or less incomprehensible to anyone over 20 unless they are A) a rather large and orange primate to whom "ook" can have over a hundred meanings or B) an aging wizard wearing enough leather to restore several cows to full health were it returned to them. In this respect, we have finally found one area in which Myria is at absolutely no disadvantage relative to the rest of adult Ankh Morpork.

[2] A Patrician (n) MWRI slang – A person lacking in any perceptible humor whatsoever. People generally did not use this slang if they thought the Patrician could actually hear them. What most people failed to take into account was that the Patrician heard practically everything eventually.

[3] That is, SOME people say the Librarian is a monkey. But not to his face… at least not more than once.