Naked truth chapter 2 - about the cherries and the hair salon
Distant memories
The suffocating sensation hit her as she descended the cement staircases, one step at a time, 20 steps time three and 10 more after—cold, imposing, and often unnervingly lonely. The absence of windows only amplified the eerie feeling that slithered through her body. The staircases seemed to echo the greyness of everything around her. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away”—that was the mantra of her childhood in a communist country. But it was a hollow saying for her family. They never followed it.
The air that day, as always, was filled with empty declarations, edicts barked without meaning, spoken whenever the ferret—the nickname she’d given the family member who dominated their lives—felt like it. Just words, tossed carelessly into the oppressive atmosphere, void of sincerity or example.
You might ask yourself where is Miss Foxxy. Not to worry, Miss Foxxy will make her return in time. But today, it’s all about the apples and cherries.
She found herself trailing behind the ferret down those same lifeless stairs, a cotton bag in hand—a sign it was before the revolution. Her short black hair had been freshly cut by Madam Vicky, the hairdresser the ferret insisted upon ever since they had moved into the new apartment block. No matter how much the girl longed for a different style, the ferret always objected. “What would the neighbors say if you went somewhere else?short hair is best. What would Madam Vicky think?”
That hairdressing salon was more than a place for trims and curls; it was a hub for the community, a haven for gossip where secrets flowed as freely as the hairs fell. The women there were always exchanging stories with the stylists, who, along with doing nails and brows, seemed to command an invisible authority over the neighborhood’s private lives. Eyebrows would raise at the slightest hint of scandal—a child who failed exams, a whispered affair. Nothing escaped their notice. In between the rhythmic click of scissors and the constant hum of hairdryers, lives were dissected, stories unraveled, and reputations quietly chipped away.
The hair salon was tucked into the ground floor of their 10-story, 10-staircase grey communist block of flats. It housed about 400 families—a vertical village of sorts—where the concrete walls seemed to close in a little more each day and the earthquakes etched deeper cracks, like lines on an ageing face.
Madam Vicky stood outside the shop, enjoying a few moments of peace between clients. She was short and plump, with funny curly hair, always kind to me, and loving in a special way. But years later, her eyes grew sadder, her temper sharper, and her words nearly disappeared. Marriage troubles had hit her hard.
The Ferret, as we called her, always pretended to be in a hurry, never quite stopping to chat. She often said she hated small talk. The girl was her opposite. She loved conversation, though there was so little of it in her life, and knew she could only enjoy it when she was alone.
And so, they marched on together across the melting pavement, headed for the farmer’s market which was only 10 min walking, one of the girl’s favourite places, alongside the bookshop.
The vibrant colors, smells, and sounds of the market were always intoxicating, in the best possible way. It was cherry season, and the occasional early apples sat beside mountains of juicy strawberries whose sweet scent carried from afar. The market was typical of the time, where small farmers rented stalls to sell their produce. Martha loved the kind faces, the rough, cracked hands that spoke of hard work, and the rosy cheeks of the women. The chattiness and warmth filled the air, and the women were always generous to children, offering free fruit and kind words.
The Ferret was ready for action. Martha—let’s call her that—always felt embarrassed to visit the market with her. She hated the way the Ferret treated the farmers, speaking down to them and trying to squeeze better prices by belittling their efforts.
"Look at this! Your cherries have worms!" Martha heard the Ferret’s sharp voice as she poked at the cherries, despite the polite request from the smiling vendor not to touch them. *Oh no, not again*, Martha thought.
Forty minutes later, they were on their way back, bags full of juicy spring onions, perfectly ripe strawberries, delicious cottage cheese from their regular farmer, raw milk, yogurt, red-skinned potatoes, fragrant bunches of parsley and dill, and, of course, a kilo of cherries.
Cherries, strawberries, apples—everything was bought in kilos, enjoyed in abundance.
Martha couldn’t wait to get back to her room with a plate of cherries. She’d lie on her stomach on the floor, *Anna Karenina* spread open in front of her. Reading was her sanctuary. Books were her friends, and the school librarian, her goddess, always set aside extra books just for her.
End of chapter 2
Until next time, be well!
One of my dreams is to write a novel, inspired by real events but with a touch of fiction in it. Will it happen? I don’t know! Writing as and when I find the energy and time while navigating the choppy waters of life.
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Read chapter 1 here
Thank you so much for reading and sharing @EpicGonzo
Thanks a lot for sharing it @Marc Arginteanu