Seyfert Observes a Terran Woman Inside a Beauty Salon
Mardi Gras Morning, New Orleans, Louisiana
by Julie Mark Cohen
Seyfert hid in plain sight among several closely-spaced, large oak trees. He snared the bottom of his gold-lace-trimmed, pearly-purple toga and polished the lenses of a pair of Terran binoculars that he found hanging from a tree branch. Focusing on the store window across the street, he mounted an audio receiver on his front-most cranial protuberance, checked his universal translator, and adjusted his ear buds.
A cosmetologist sporting several necklaces of purple, green, and gold stomped around a young lady, tugging on her disheveled clothes, trying to fluff her hair, and pinching her cheeks. “What happened to you, girl? You’re going to ruin my reputation.”
“When I do a makeover, it lasts for at least one month. You were here last week, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The young lady hung her head in shame.
“Look at me. Why didn’t you follow my instructions? Wasn’t I clear?”
“Yes, I understood them. I washed my hair with the soap you gave me and used the cream rinse, but my hair came out dry and brittle, just like it has been for some time.”
“You must’ve done something wrong. Maybe, the water was too hard,” the cosmetologist said. “What about your makeup? I selected the best colors for you — the base lotion, rouge, eye shadow, mascara, lipst-”
“I know. I listened to everything you said to me. I remembered everything. I did everything.”
“If you followed my instructions, then what happened to your color?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, the make-up couldn’t take the humidity.”
“I doubt that. My products are the best.”
The young lady stared at herself in the mirror and sobbed. “I just wanted to be pretty. I want a boyfriend.”
Seyfert’s ears perked and he thought, Boyfriend? She is cute in a plain, mindless sort of way. He fixated on the young lady.
“I’ll try one more time,” the cosmetologist said. “How about an appointment now, so you can be ready for tonight?”
“Your name, again?”
That can’t be correct. Seyfert utilized his wrist computer. Oh no! Hortlak is Turkish for zombie.
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Copyright 2015 by Julie Mark Cohen