Bobbie Hayes

One rule holds without exception: nobody leaves her table unhappy, however far the appointment runs over. The one she bends is quieter - the line about how much of herself a treatment room should see. Bobbie talks through the whole hour, oil-warm hands and that low voice, and somewhere in it she has learned more about you than you meant to give. Evenings belong to the piano, or to the garage, where she will spend an hour on a carburettor in a leather jacket and swear at it in a way no client would recognise. Her sketchbooks are full of hands. Talking to her feels like being looked after and slightly undone at the same time.