25th January 2015
Ali was a hairdresser. He worked Wednesdays to Sundays in a small salon in Nottingham city centre as the token camp one that Sharon, the owner, seemed to think every salon should have. Ali didn’t really mind. Sharon was alright, the other girls were nice enough, and anyway, Sharon always let him mess around with the rota to line up his time off with Yazid’s.
Yazid worked two jobs—one in a fancy pub masquerading as a restaurant in Beeston, and the other in a city centre Indian restaurant-s***h-takeaway where the only requirement to work there was to know how to wash your hands, how to pronounce the food names, and look vaguely Indian. His shifts at the pub were pretty regular, but the takeaway more changeable, so some Sundays…
“Ali, babe!”
That particular lilt to Sharo
