62
Griff
“Okay, that should be the last of them,” I say. “Great job, team!”
I watch as forty-two plates of nutritious roast chicken dinners head out the door. Word is, there’ve been requests to make
the weekend chef permanent. I’ve never met the weekday bloke; I’d figured he’d be the one to catch me out—notice the meals
had changed, start asking questions—but I haven’t heard a peep. Apparently, like many in this industry, he’s one of those
who’s just here for the paycheck. Clocks his hours and leaves, not caring about what happens outside of his shifts. I’ve been
sure to toss or use the allocated supplies as well as all the gourmet extras I purchase. So, I guess as long as the fridges
look about the same by Monday, there’s nothing to raise suspicion.
Through the door, I spot Nishan chatting with one of the residents, laughing at something they’ve said. A full transformation.
“Martin? Martin!”
I turn around to see the flustered receptionist. “Hi, Tiffany, what are you doing here on the weekend?”
“Had to catch up on some pressing paperwork for the accreditation. Boss’s orders.”
I pause, recalling seeing her frantically shredding paper as I was on the way back to my room this morning.
“Anyway, I need your help urgently.”
“Oh?”
“Your résumé—it says you were a hairdresser for many years before you were a cook . . . ?”
Scotty and I exchange glances.
“Um. Yes . . .”
“One of the residents has put chewing gum in . . . in”—she glances nervously at Scotty and clears her throat—“in a staff member’s
hair. It’s an absolute mess.”
“Can’t she get it cut at a salon?” I ask.
“She’s got a date in half an hour! There’s no way she’ll have time to make an appointment. She insisted I come find you. Please
help?”
“I’m sorry, it’s been such a long time, I really don’t think I could. I don’t even have equipment with me.”
She pulls me aside out of earshot and whispers who it is.
A wide grin spreads over my lips. “Say no more.”
Adjusting my face mask, I head to Allison’s office, passing Gladys on my way.
“I told you I didn’t do it,” the old woman says to Navneet. “I went to see her in her office, and she was asleep on the couch.
She obviously rolled into it.”
Allison is perched on her desk chair in a short green dress, leaning toward a compact mirror as she fixes a strip of false
lashes. “I appreciate this. Thank god you’re a hairdresser! Your résumé said you have twenty years’ experience—lucky me! Give
me something that will make me look younger.”
“Sure thing. The cut I’m giving you will take decades off.” Babies are mostly bald, after all.
I bring the poultry shears out of my pocket. Good thing we served roast chicken tonight, so they have a greasy layer of chook
fat on them. Must be great for brittle hair.
The disgusting pink gum is stretched throughout her black locks.
“So, what’s the story here?”
“That Gladys, you know the blind one? She rubbed gum in my hair. I think she needs to be moved to the dementia wing. She said I was asleep! How would she know?! She can’t even see!”
I hold back the pure rage swelling inside me, channeling it into my hands as I start chopping. Sticky pink clumps cling to
the blade. I snip. I yank. I make no effort to be gentle.
She winces. I smile. And I thought cooking was fun!
“All done, Allison. This cut is all the rage at the moment—very avant-garde!”
“Thank you. I’ve got to run, I’ve got high hopes for this date, we’ve been chatting online for a month. I’ll have to have
a look in the bathroom. Thanks again!”
She dashes away, and I admire the chunky gaps and hacked-off tufts on her scalp. As I walk down the corridor, I begin the
countdown. Five, four, three, two . . .
“ARGHHHHHH!” Allison’s scream fills the hallway and my heart.
If only I could record it for my ringtone. That was for breaking Beau’s viola!
“MARTIN! What the hell have you done?!” I hear her yell. Too late. I’ve already stripped off my chef whites and am halfway to my room.
Martin’s gone. Just old Griff is here now—mild, muddled, and nowhere near the scissors.