Fatal Distraction

A punky stylist in towering boots has lost focus at the crucial moment. Clippers buzz a bald track up her client s curls as a muscle‚ bound show‚ off flexes outside the salon window, turning both heads. Tubs of goop and sprays line pastel shelves; a mirror captures the misadventure as loose ringlets tumble to the chequered floor. The client, serenely reading a glossy magazine, hasn t clocked the damage yet. It s a slapstick snapshot of concentration gone walkabout, told with bright colour and affectionate exaggeration. Every element nudges the joke along‚ the stylist s belt stuffed with scissors, the gym sign beyond the doorway, the green handbag waiting innocently for a tidy trim that clearly isn t coming.