Chantelle Bernard had worked as a stylist in the Chez Marie’s Hairdressers for eleven years. Madame Bouverais, a well-known hairdresser in the Riberac district of the Dordogne, trained her with the necessary skills to cut and colour client’s hair. Chantelle was now the lead stylist of the salon and had a book full of clients as they valued her skills, charm and positive personality.

It was a rather cool Monday morning and the fluffy clouds travelled in a northerly direction through the grey autumnal sky. The market place in Riberac was very quiet following the merriment of the weekend. Chantelle made her way to the salon through the driving wind, adjusting her headscarf as she went. She reached the door of Chez Marie’s and fumbled through her untidy handbag to retrieve the front door keys. How she hated Mondays; they were always quiet and slow. She inserted the key and unlocked the heavily glazed door, turning the sign to ‘ouvert’ as she passed. Her bandaged wrists still hurt from her attempted suicide. She switched on the salon lights and made her way to the small kitchen at the rear of the premises to make a strong, black cup of coffee. This was to be a partial remedy for her growing hangover, the result of too much solitary wine at home.

With the mug of coffee steaming in her hand she sat at the reception desk to check the appointment’s sheet.

‘9.30am Madame Oubliet, 10.30am Madame Albergne for her usual blue rinse…’ It was going to be a tiring morning and she longed for her lunch break where she could escape the confines of the four prison-like walls surrounding her.

This moment of quietness allowed her to reflect upon the happenings of the past week. She remembered the last thing she had said to Remone, her estranged boyfriend, as he left the town with her best girl friend. They had been having an affair for the past year right under her very nose. Edith had betrayed her and it hurt greatly. Chantelle remembered the tender moments she had shared with Remone; the kisses, the touching and the sweet smell of his hairless chest. Although Remone had only been gone a few days the pain was unbearable and she had tried to drown her sorrows in the bottom of numerous wine bottles the previous night. She was paying the price for this misadventure, as she took two aspirin from her handbag and swallowed them with the last mouthful of lukewarm coffee.

The door opened and Madame Oubliet walked in. Chantelle smiled and looked at the clock it was 9.30am. She wondered what had happened to the past half an hour as she rinsed the eighty year old woman’s fine hair.

"Chantelle, the water is too hot, my dear," pleaded Madame Oubliet.

"Oh, I’m sorry. Please accept my apologies. Is that better? Chantelle apologised. She felt the water temperature and it was ok. She continued applying the shampoo and massaged the elderly scalp with renewed vigour.

"What have you done to your wrists, my dear?" asked the concerned lady.

"My cat scratched me as I was trying the de-flea him. He really is a terror!" she lied.

With the washing completed Chantelle asked Madame Oubliet to move to the styling booth. Once established within the confines of the booth cutting commenced in silence. Chantelle’s mind started to wander again. She wondered what Remone and Edith would be doing in their new Toulouse apartment. Would they still be in bed or sharing breakfast together? She looked down and realised that she had removed too much hair and had to use her stylistic powers of persuasion to convince her client that this was indeed the latest style and it suited her greatly.

Madame Oubliet was pleased with the discount offered by Chantelle and left the salon in a hurry leaving the stylist to prepare for her next client. Chantelle looked at the clock, it was 10.15am. She sighed and sat down with her back to the door.

"Pardon, mademoiselle, would it be possible to have a trim?" said the man. Chantelle turned to see a tall, dark haired man standing behind her. She was surprised, as she had not heard the door buzzer go. She quickly recovered her wits and replied,

"Yes, I have time monsieur. Would you like to follow me to my booth?" The attractive thirty-year-old male followed her like a faithful dog. Chantelle gathered her scissors and razor for the task ahead and asked the male client what he would like to have done.

"Just a trim, mademoiselle. Not too much off the top please!"

She commenced her craft and marvelled at the softness and thickness of his black hair. Chantelle took a deep inhalation to savour his after-shave. It was ‘Le Male’ by Gautier, her favourite, as worn by her ex-lover. They talked as she worked and she lost track of time, enjoying every minute of their discourse. She felt different, as her hangover had gone. The cloud of misery surrounding her had been dispersed by the charm of this attractive, sensual man.

On completion they walked to the reception desk.

"That will be 180 francs, please monsieur," asked Chantelle. The man paid her with a 200-franc note and she passed a twenty-franc note into his soft hand in change.

"Could I please make another appointment? Say next Friday?" he asked.

"Let me check the reservations," responded Chantelle. She was going to say yes even if this meant changing other client’s appointments. "Would 5.00pm suit you, monsieur?"

"That will be fine," he replied with a smile that almost melted her heart.

"Monsieur, your name please for the reservation?" she asked in eager anticipation.

"Giorgio Leonardo," he replied with a soft, sexy voice. Chantelle committed this name to memory as she scribbled the appointment carelessly onto the appointment’s sheet. As he left Giorgio slipped her a 100-franc note.

"This is for you. Do not worry anymore. Everything will be ok."

"Thank you, monsieur!"

These words of comfort touched her and she believed him. He left as Madame Albergne entered the salon. Chantelle was looking forward to the routine offered by a blue rinse. Perhaps she would be daring and try a copper rinse today?

Chantelle dreamed of Giorgio each night. She wondered why he was having this effect on her. He was probably happily married with children and not looking for the frenzied advancements of a spurned woman. This did not deter her. She continued her fantasy undeterred by all rationality and reason.

Chantelle looked at the salon clock, it was 5.00pm. A voice she recognised came from her booth. It was Giorgio. She found him sitting in the styling chair already gowned for the forthcoming trim. Chantelle thought that an assistant must have shown him in as she prepared a colouring solution in the back room.

"Giorgio, how nice to see you. Are you well?" she asked feeling sweat form on the palms of her hands. She wiped them discretely on a towel.

"Very well, thank you Chantelle. The usual please," he responded. He stared at her in the mirror with deep, powerful blue eyes. She did not feel uneasy but enjoyed his visual inspection. She examined his hair and was perplexed, as it hadn’t grown. It was as though he had come back into the salon immediately after his last cut. Nearly two weeks had elapsed since then.

"You have fine hair, Giorgio. You keep it well," she commented.

"I just use ordinary shampoo each day. Nothing special," he replied offering another delicious smile. Her legs felt wobbly but she persevered with the cut, removing very little, if no hair at all.

To Chantelle’s surprise she found herself telling him every single detail concerning Remone and her hatred for Edith. He listened in silence and nodded in approval almost willing her to go further and reveal the entirety. She told him about her school days and each, intimate detail of her life to the present day.

"You mustn’t blame yourself for the actions of others. You are a good person, Chantelle. You should be happy with your life but you do need a different direction and purpose in life," he offered in earnest.

"What do you mean?" asked Chantelle as she cut the final strand of dark hair.

"Look, we can discuss this further. I live not far from here. Would you like to dine with me this evening?" he inquired. Chantelle felt her heart miss a beat, similar to the feeling of her first pubescent kiss. She had primeval feelings awakened and stirred by Giorgio long hidden in her adulthood. She did not hesitate,

"I would be delighted. Meet me at the Bar Angouleme at six o’clock."

Giorgio was waiting at their agreed meeting place and they shared a bottle of wine together watching people relax after a busy week of work. They laughed and smiled the hour away. Giorgio paid the bill and they left for his apartment.

Chantelle was impressed by the gothic décor. Heavy fabric hung from the windows and walls and large candlesticks lit the main room, the type you would find in any Catholic church. The walls were covered in pictures of people, both men and women of indeterminate ages. Chantelle was too modest to ask who they were but accepted the place offered at the long mahogany table covered in fine china and gold cutlery. She surveyed the room and felt warm, secure and contented. It was almost womb-like and she felt safe from the outside world cocooned within this temporal chamber.

"Would you like red or white wine with your meal, Chantelle?" Giorgio asked as he picked up her wine glass.

"What are we eating?" she asked.

"A light fish soufflé to start followed by filet of lamb," he responded.

"Red please," she answered. She felt his hand brush against hers when he replaced her full wine glass. This felt good and rather sensual.

The meal was delightful and Chantelle felt mellow from the mixture of good food, company and liqueurs. They retired to the soft, purple couch in front of the open fire. Flames twisted their way up the chimney and the wood offered occasional cracks to add to the friendly ambiance. Chantelle removed her shoes and leant against her saviour. Giorgio appeared to be uncomfortable at this level of intimacy and moved slightly away. He offered her another Chantilly, which she readily accepted. When Giorgio returned he sat on the velvet armchair opposite. Chantelle was slightly offended at this proximity demarcation.

"Was it something I said?" asked Chantelle.

"No, but such intimacy is not part of my brief," replied this caring apparition.

"Your brief? What do you mean?" urged Chantelle.

"I am not here to be your lover. I am with you now to help you regain your former stature and nobility," Giorgio said. "My time with you is short and we have much to do, Chantelle."

Chantelle stared at the isolate male perched on the edge of his seat and considered her answer carefully.

"You speak of a task to complete. How does that involve me?" she asked.

"We only come to earth when we have been assigned a task. You have been selected to be a Dominion. By this you will be able to help people come to terms with their difficulties, like I helped you."

"Yes, I remember and am very grateful for your timely intervention. I have strong feelings for you and like you very much. What is a Dominion?" she asked reverently.

"A type of angel and servant messenger of our Lord."

"How can I be an angel as a mortal? Angels are not human beings, they are created by God."

"But you are not a mortal, you are immortal."

"How can that be?"

"The marks on your wrist bear testament to this. You died in your bloodstained bath some two weeks ago. Your death wish was answered. God has forgiven you for this sin and wishes you to do his work here on earth."

Chantelle was shocked. She felt the scars on her wrists and considered his words. Had she died? She couldn’t remember much about the incident as she was a washed with wine and barbiturates. Her eyes filled with angelic tears and she sobbed loudly.

Friday was market day and the salon heaved with customers eager to obtain satisfaction in preparation for the weekend. Chantelle had dealt with twelve satisfied customers and they had all left the salon feeling that much better. Her angelic powers had given her the ability to listen with discretion to the pleas of her clients. Her growing wisdom allowed her to solve many of their problems for them and they valued her contribution to their mortal journey of life.

Two years later the ‘Hello’ Magazine did a feature on Chantelle’s house. People worldwide marvelled at her success and her opulent possessions. She now owned a successful salon in each of the major cities and her name was proudly printed on a wide range of hair products used by millions of people throughout the world. The magazine reporter asked her the secret of her success. She replied,

"Hard work and the ability to listen to people. The other facet is the training of my staff. I train each of my managers personally. I seek them out and find them from the populous. They have to have one thing in common."

"And what’s that?" asked the earnest reporter.

"Well that would be telling, wouldn’t it?" replied the Dominion.

In December 2001 Chantelle called three hundred salon managers together for a conference in Paris. The final photo shoot was completed following a successful conference. The photographer, developing the negatives in her laboratory, failed to notice the suicide cuts on each of their wrists, carefully masked by bracelets and bangles. Chantelle had made her finite contribution, at last, to humanity.