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In the morning, the square was white Voula’s hair was white A pigeon on a bronze horse shifted, sent snow down a flank the colour of Voula’s hair as it had been yesterday The girls at the factory were stumped They searched her locker for the necessary products They touched their heads and snapped at each other Their hair remained the colour of the bronze horses defending the square They distinguished themselves by minor differences in length and thickness There were those with fringes and those without They bought special tonics from daughters-in-law and dentists and women who spent their working days sat at bus stops staring at the pavements Tonics were expensive and they hadn’t the heart to tell each other that it made no difference  The factory air flattened and thinned their hair How did Voula manage it? Nothing stayed white in this square for long, except the square itself She had arrived slightly later than the other girls, this morning They had been seated at their machines when she entered, smiling widely, blaming the snow She took her place in the corner, her back to the other girls, her white bob standing for the whole of her head Their eyes watched it while their hands fed what would become the white sleeves of men’s shirts through the machines When the girls returned from lunch, her machine was empty Half a sleeve They were as worried as they were triumphant One of them peered into the office of the supervisor, who sat vacantly running a screwdriver through his flat, thin hair ‘Voula has had an emergency,’ he answered, before she could ask ‘I have given her the afternoon off’ And then: ‘She had the necessary papers’ She explained everything to her husband He sat in their bedroom a few blocks from the factory, listening to the horses running through the radio She had woken up earlier than usual She had left the flat quietly and walked through the streets The sun had not been quite ready She passed the supermarket and the chemist and a shop selling