Eyes closed, she enjoyed the silence and the way the hairdresser washed her hair. Finally, someone who understood that there was no talking during work. At least, not with her. Because she was her. And with her, unsolicited conversation was strictly off-limits.
For the first time, she was alone in the place. She had had to pay for the hour and a half the other two renters in the salon would lose by not taking clients while she was there. Oh well, it was worth it. What was that cost compared to what she would have had to pay anyway?
The woman, now in her late forties, still couldn’t process that she’d been forced to leave her home: the grand mansion, the seven-person staff, the glittering parties, and the envious looks. She’d had to give up the in-house tailor, hairdresser, pedicurist, masseuse. Here, nobody even knew her. And yet, she was her.
She didn’t have to go shopping, only when she needed new clothes. But for all other services, she had to get in the car herself. These people were lazy. They weren’t willing to come to her home. Like it or not, the client had to show up at the salon and endure the chatter. Because these people never shut up. And they’re loud. They don’t stay quiet, even when she’s there. And her—she is absolutely not used to it.
These people weren’t impressed by money or evident wealth. They didn’t care. They weren’t envious; in fact, they didn’t even stare. Sometimes she’d catch a lingering look from a foreign tourist, but that was it. At the jewelry store or the perfumery, they didn’t rush to greet her. They didn’t even glance her way. If she wanted something, she had to ask. Despite being her. How could they not understand?
Those awful sandals! She despised those women shuffling around in flip-flops and shorts. Sure, they got their nails done—that much they cared about—but proper clothes? Forget it. Only she and a few of her compatriots did themselves and, of course, the world a favor by stepping out in elegant attire. Not that anyone appreciated their efforts. Although, to be fair, she dressed primarily to please herself. Because she was her, the kind of woman who could leave any decent man speechless even if he saw her for the first time without makeup, in a nightgown, and with messy hair.
Then again, just the other day, even the police officer wasn’t impressed by her appearance. He scolded her long and rudely for parking in the roundabout. But where else was she supposed to park if all the spots were taken? Five kilometers away? Her? How was it her fault that her car was impossible to squeeze into those tiny, ridiculous spaces? And, honestly! It was enough of a hardship that she had to drive herself and deal with these annoyances. Did these people understand everything she had had to give up? Her!
She could take a taxi. But she had made it clear: she wasn’t getting into those heaps of junk. When she was her! How could they even imagine that? Those so-called high-end vehicles were all garbage. So she’d rather drive. And if anyone didn’t like that she parked on the sidewalk, crosswalk, or even in a roundabout, they could go to hell. The locals did the same thing. Of course, their battered wrecks didn’t bother the police as much as her luxury car did.
The parties hurt. Those were gone. Perhaps forever. Once, her husband suggested hosting a gathering for the neighbors. Ugh. Absolutely not! Sure, they also had wealth, but they were nowhere near their level. She mingled with influential people, not boat dealers or real estate agents. And besides, they didn’t even speak the same language. Maybe her husband thought they would all mumble incoherently in English over dinner? Her? Eh…