“You look very nice today.”

“Why, thank you,” the hairdresser replied crisply. “In about fifteen minutes, if you allow me to finish, then so might you.”

He suppressed a grin and caught the eye of a passing assistant. Around twenty, short blonde hair, tits out to here and legs to die for. Not that he was looking.

“Hi, have we met?” he flashed a smile. “Guy Pearson.”

The girl simpered a little, and blushed shyly. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Pearson.”

“You’ve met him, Annette,” Cynthia ushered her away. “He comes once a month.”

“And on holidays,” Guy added.

“Oh, right, I just, I mean, you know, I was being polite.”

“Well, get back to whatever you were doing. And you, Mr Pearson,” she leaned over Guy to block his view of Annette’s departing rear, “should be ashamed. That girl could be your daughter.”

“Impossible, she has blue eyes.”

“It says something, I suppose, that you noticed.”

“And also great tits.” He shook his head wistfully. “All the women in my family are flat-chested.”

(…)
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