Skye City: The Darkness of Emmilyn

First Real Hair Cut

We head to the men's section of the clothing store and Otess proves surprisingly easy to shop for because he agrees with every suggestion we make. By the time we are done which is about fifteen minutes later, the tribesman is wearing a black suit and leather shoes and looking rather dapper, apart from his unusual hairstyle. Perhaps he is setting a trend though.

'Let's get our hair done,' my mother says and I giggle nervously as we wander into a nearby salon. It has rows of swivelling leather seats and styling devices which look like upside-down eggcups, but strangely no staff, human or otherwise.

All of the styling devices are occupied, meaning they are covering someone's head while they cut or dye hair. I have never set foot inside a cheap salon with human hairdressers, let alone one this cool. I admire the pictures on the walls, showing models with stunning hairstyles which could never look that good on me, could they?

The girls and I used to regularly dye and occasionally cut out our own hair – I say occasionally because our attempts at cutting were invariably a bit messy, but the plus point of dying is that dye-remover is easy to come by. My hair has been every colour of the rainbow these past couple of years, but now I am getting older and wiser, I prefer my natural blonde.

A girl leaves a styling device then swipes her Citicard to pay for the service and exits the salon. A red message floats above the device: Next customer please and my mother nudges my arm so I rush over to the swivelling armchair, giggling.

A message reads: Please choose your preferred style and a hologram appears before my eyes, showing a girl with short hair and a parting which crosses her face, covering one eye.

'Erm, not for me, thanks,' I say and various holograms appear and disappear until finally I make my choice. 'This one please!'

A message reads: Please sit still and I realise I was unintentionally bouncing in my seat so I correct my posture. The styling device comes down over my head and I quietly giggle again. I was expecting darkness, but I can actually see a music video playing and hear a pop song from a new girl band. The machine gently whizzes and tickles as my hair is styled and I am scared to move an inch in case my head is sliced to ribbons.

As the song is coming to an end, the styling machine stops whizzing and rises into the air, and I see a hologram of my own head with my new hairstyle. The hologram rotates to show the back where two thin braids from the top meet a thicker braid at the bottom. I would never be able to style my own hair like this in a million years.

A message reads: Are you satisfied with your choice?

'Yes, thank you, I love it.'

That will be twenty five credits.

'Oh, it wants money,' I say, then I realise I have my brother's wallet, but my mother approaches the styling device and removes her purse from her handbag. She swipes her Citicard in a slot on the side of the device, then presses her finger on a pad and a message appears: Payment authorised. Thank you and please come again.

The ladies get their hair done next, but Otess politely declines to get his done, much to our disappointment and we leave the salon. All I need now is makeup and I will feel like a superstar.