I was sitting in my dull grey/blue office cubicle feeling miserable and as blue as the cubicle. Blue was meant to be a colour of harmony, boy did we need it in this crazy world of colour, ranging from sandy sandstone yellow to righteous red and it wasn’t blue black, it was black-blue. Then there was the team called the blue rinse brigade who shoulder every colour from velvet violet or violent violet to brilliant blue- this was created for a customer who used our products more regularly than any girl who had a regular monthly cycle. And what was I feeling blue about?
I was blue about an imperfect man, once in my life and now no longer. Sunday night, June 18th , and royally dumped! I thought it was going to be something else as we met at a restaurant, not posh but trendy enough for the Sunday chill vibe. He as sitting with a bottle of champagne, unusual for a Sunday night, so you can imagine my thoughts swung like a roller coaster. I was wondering if it was some sort of anniversary I’d missed as I stepped in the restaurant and headed directly and confidently to the man of my dreams. Then I thought, oh my god. My heart thumped like a dancer on ecstasy, this is the moment. The moment every girl dreams of; the yes answer because I knew that is what I was going to say even though he…well, we all need secrets. I wondered if I would sound genuine as I said ‘yes’. I sat down, fiddled with my top, wondered if my blue jeans and sweetheart neckline sweater was the right attire for my ‘yes’. Champagne was poured, pleasantries exchanged, mindless chatter. I couldn’t hear a thing! I just was listening to anything except the sounds of my heartbeat. I was waiting for the question. Would he seriously get on one knee for me? The hammering of the heart again and then I registered
“Vicky, have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
“Vicky, it’s not going to work between us. We’re not going to work. I’m sorry, have some more champagne. Friends hey?”
“What…but the champagne”
“Look lets see this as a celebration of your…our…my freedom. Cheers…to going our own separate ways. Oh darling, don’t look so stunned I could’ve sent you a text, instead I am buying the champagne. I’m a gentleman…aren’t I?”
The rest was a blur, the champagne numbed my mind like an anaesthetic, blue blur settled itself in front of my face as I sat at my work desk. Hands were poised with a soggy tissue and my face was a visage of pain. Oh god, I thought, I had better look like I am busy. The boss was on her way, I am sure she’d be a lot nicer if she was getting some.
The boss was once a great boss, that was before her husband left for a younger model. Now the poor woman is bitter, twisted and continually angry. We call her the Red Rage behind her back and it is abbreviated to RR on emails. Cherry, the receptionist will send and email warning us, the header will read: Alert: RR on Ranting Rampage! That’s the sign for us to run from the coffee machine to our desks and look motivated and busy. For a mature woman, she is rather beautiful with lush royal red hair and once she was the hair of the company. She still has high cheek bones and her botox regime has been effective rather than tacky. As an ex-model she is tall and elegant. She would be the perfect mature woman for any mature man, if she wasn’t psychotic.
For Rene, that’s her name, it has become all about the profit line, she has forgotten the people that have worked for her. Every meeting it is the same question, ‘how do we maximise the profit line’. She is hoping this new wig will launch the company onto the stock market.
The new product is for the tranny and granny world. According to the company statistics the markets are huge. Trannies love a variety of wigs and are obsessed about them and will pay a fortune over and over again for them and the grannies, well enough said. Naturally, we are marketing it as the ‘TRANNY N GRANNY WIG’, even though it has a certain rhythm to it.
It was Jon’s idea, another poor soul. He is our closet tranny. Poor man told his wife about his female fetish and she ran out on him, although the there has been a rumour that she walked out and walked in to the neighbour’s house and immediately asked for a divorce. The rumour is he just provided her with a reason to be with her lover. So now the office has a straight single tranny who is so despairingly miserable and devastated with the end of his marriage. So I now work with two sad people and together we are trying to launch a wig for a vibrant wild exceeding exotic market.
These wigs are supposed to mimic normal hair. A person can extend and shorten them at will. This is done all through some kind of hidden compartment. Additionally, the wig can be dyed at will without damage to the wig or your own hair. There is some kind of hidden compartment for the hair to be shortened and lengthened, although there are still some teething problems. The hair gets knotted when it is pulled in and out. The design team is working on using oil or something similar to make it less knotty but then the hair looks just plain greasy. I think they are now thinking of using the stuff that is found in your breast enlargement cushions. The dyes for the wigs are already patented so L’oreal might as well give up, the company will have the market. Actually, I have to say that as I need to market them. The truth of the matter is, when the prototypes are dyed they turn into blue rinses, great for the grannies but unless our trannies are a hundred years old, I can’t see them rushing towards this product. I have to sell it with poor Jon!
“Darling, how are you? You look like hell! Is the tear-stained look in Vogue this spring?”
“OH…hon, Rich Richard, dumped me! me, can you believe it! He dumped me…!”
“Coffee? Come on let’s hear what dirty nasty Dick, did to you?”