As he drove up, she was waiting in front of her hairdresser's with arms folded and locked under her breasts.  It struck him that she couldn't have found a better pose if what she wanted was to exhibit her breasts.  Was this his first time of seeing her as she may appear to the public?  It was her breasts he noticed and kept his eyes on as he pulled up to the curb.  She seemed to notice him among other things her eyes kept moving to, but she was seeing nothing.  He thought to honk, but stopped himself.  It had to do with her hair.  She must not be happy with it.  Perhaps it was too straight.  He could later recall this moment only because it was his first time in the ritual of picking her up at the hairdresser's in which he had put to practice what he knew to do.  He pulled out and drove around the block.  He saw her see him even before he made his next approach.  Her arms flung out,  and she scuttled on the tips of her toes toward him, a smile lighting her face enough to light his own.  How special that extra little moment had been, he thought.  A drive around the block was all the extra time she needed to come to terms with the emotional affect her botched haircut had wrought: she was her face again, private to him in the way it looked at him.