The smell of chipper vinegar and cheap hairspray hit me walking past that salon on Talbot Street — Mam's place, the one above the Chinese takeaway where I'd do homework on sweaty vinyl chairs while she permed Mrs. O'Leary's fringe for twenty quid. Da would collect me in the transit van smelling of diesel and Player's, singing along to The Saw Doctors off-key, and I'd pretend to be mortified but really I'd be buzzing. Funny how the ordinary days stick harder than the big ones.