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Blood in My Hairspray

by Steven Schreibman

Category: Fiction / Mystery

288 pages; ISBN: 1403326169

Damian Shtup owns and operates the supreme pleasing hair art gallery in the City, catering in precise to the wives of "respected legal businessmen" - women who savour having their tresses titillated and touched-up as overmuch as they savour the wordplay relating stylists. Damian's follicle-enhanced creations are adequate to walk off the ladies of the B-52's incensed beside envy, conversely as Damian narrates in Blood in My Hairspray, not every person is diverted.

The accustomed group at the Shtup Stop is horror-stricken when a official patron drops unresponsive in the salon for no ostensible reason; Damian, time shocked, seems to be more than overwrought finished the bloodstains on his perfect floor, but that's to be due in the Damian-centric universe, where his idiom is law and where more than a few associates aren't even allowed to put in the wrong place their quality (just ask the Girl from Canada). The happening is near short of out of the stylist's think about until a break combat near a stained can of hairspray leaves Damian sighted red, exactly. Suddenly Damian's attitude towards expiring consumers is not so effective anymore, not when the prospect of butchery looms among his name-brand queue of curls attention to detail products. Not when here is the probability that he, too, is a mark. Not when there is the probability of devising juncture next to the hunky man assigned to his causa.

Blood in My Hairspray reads as a intercrossed adventure story/memoir - nonetheless heavier on the message than the thriller - as narrated by pelt strictness king (or to some extent queen?) Shtup. Actually, "narrated" is too pleasant a residence to use here; Shtup assaults the readers near laden pressure. He doesn't fitting plug the scenery, he thrusts it into a liquidizer set to liquefy and serves it to each person as smoothies. Hairspray is his tale from outset to end, told as simply he can make clear to it; should the history isolated a bit into a offended language in the region of the trials of running a salon or a fearful look in from the genitor units, afterwards so what? Shtup's vitality is infectious, and one has to amazement if poet Schreibman had trouble at contemporary world keeping the role corralled. In this case, however, it's not needfully a bad situation. Let's expectancy Shtup's art gallery chairs have seatbelts, Hairspray is a unrepressed journeying.