"The hairdresser was chatting away about some nouveau riche madame getting her hair fried when suddenly the lights went out and everything, everything in the parlor! went up in flames!"
"And how did you escape?"
"I was on the chair by the door, reading the latest OK magazine, the one that featured Regine and Ogie and Ruffa and Yilmaz."
"Did anyone get hurt? I mean, when I saw the parlor this morning, it looked like charred black things. There wasn't a flicker of pink anywhere."
"The hairdresser -- sheem's dead! And that's strange because the place was small, it was easy to get out of. Even the manicurista who was washing her tools in the corner sink came out with nary burn nor bruise."
"Sheem's gone! How awful! I have an appointment booked for the wedding on Friday! Where can you get a stylist at this late a time?"
"Hear, hear. Sheem was a rather talented one, wasn't sheem? I mean, sheem had hands like Franck Provost. Sheem can make Lotlot de Leon look like Keira Knightley."
"Or poor ol' me from a wilted spinster to a dashing debutante."
"Aye, me. Sheem will be missed."
"Fancing cracking the mystery?"
"Of the exploding parlor?"
"What else, dearie? Heaven knows I'm not going to go after whether the naked photo that's going around is the real teenage girlie from High School Musical."
"Hmm. Let me get my thinking cap on."
"Where should we begin?"
"Let's go to ground zero then. Number 45, Severina Avenue -- the building with hideous yellow accents and pink pink walls. It is too horribly loud for even a gay man to work in."
"Ahh, dear. Let's not get our personal preferences for classic and tasteful design in the way of good ol' fashion sleuthing."
"Hear, hear."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment