“Trixy Tresses!” Aspen
repeated. “That’s so last decade…”

“I think,” I corrected
her, “that it’s been on the market for as long as Her Majesty has
been on the throne – longer, probably.”

“Well, even more so,”
Aspen continued, “if it dates back to the bad old days of the
Democracy. Maybe even the Old Time blasphemers washed their hair
with it.”

“I’m pretty sure,” I
responded, “it isn’t that old.”

“Besides,” Celia said,
“I expect that, instead of shampoo, the blasphemers had something
to make their hair even dirtier.”

“If that’s what they
wanted,” Nicola added, “I expect that dog shit had been invented
in those days.”

“Not even a blasphemer
would…” Celia began.

“And an actress,”
Aspen said, “wouldn’t use Trixy Tresses. My friends and I all
use Lovelocks.”

“It must be heavy duty
shampoo, sis,” Rowena replied, “to get all that stage mud out of
your hair.”

“Stage mud brushes out
really easily – not like wood chips.”

“What are you talking
about?” Rowena asked. “A quick flick of the fingers sees to
that.”

“Doing that doesn’t
remove the resin.”

“Wood resin smells
nice.”

“It does,” Celia
agreed. “I love to bury my nose in Rowena’s hair after she’s
had a hard day chipping wood.”

“Not only does she get
resin in it,” Aspen objected, “but – on a day like that – she
gets sweaty, as well.”

“I like the smell of her
sweat, too.”

“Yuck!”