He sits right behind me in French, which is our first lesson tomorrow morning, so I know he will get the full effect of my hair.
Those hair dyes were such a bargain. Debs and I were shopping in town last week, and there’s this new shop opened up. They had loads of these hair dyes for a few quid each – the shopkeeper mumbled something about trying to get rid of them quickly – so I bought one of each colour, spent all my money and had to borrow the bus fare home from Debs. I don’t know why Debs didn’t buy any herself. All she did was say, “I don’t know why you need to mess with your hair all the time, Chessie. It looks normal for a change, leave it alone.”
But all the girls in our school leave their hair alone. I like changing mine, and I want Lloyd to realise that I’m not like all the other girls. If he thinks I’m like all the others then he’ll never like me, because he could go out with any one of them, and they’re all much prettier and much smarter than I am. I have to give him a reason to choose me.
I have to be different.
I saw a popstar on TV a few months ago with blue-tipped hair, but my hair was brown at the time, and I knew that blue would never show up on brown hair. I want it to be striking, so now my hair is blonde again, it will stand out. I know I’ve had some hair dye related disasters in the past, but I’m convinced that this isn’t going to be one of them. It’s not rocket science. All I’ve got to do is pour dye into a bowl, pull my hair forwards and dip the ends in. Even I can’t make a disaster out of that.
I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, amid threats from my mum that if I get expelled from school for this tomorrow not to expect any sympathy from her.
This hair-dyeing thing is really simple. I don’t know why I’ve had such trouble with it in the past. I’ve stripped down to my underwear, and I’ve got a bath run ready. As soon as my dye is on, I’ll clip my hair up and then jump in the bath while I wait for it to develop. I’m not only dyeing my hair, but I’m saving time too.
I have my bowl full of hair dye resting on the toilet seat, and I bend over it to dip my hair in. Really, what could be easier? If I’d have known that dyeing the ends of your hair was this easy I would have tried it years ago, back when my hair was naturally blonde and not something out of a bottle.
Oh. Wait a minute. That can’t be right. I pull one section of hair out of the bowl, and it’s not looking very blue. In fact, it’s looking decidedly green. Oh dear. The rest is the same. This can’t be good. My hair looks like seaweed. I can’t have it looking like this. It’s meant to be blue, not puke-green.
I do the only thing I can think of. I jump straight into the bath. The dye isn’t permanent, so if I wash it off as quickly as I put it on, hopefully it hasn’t had any time to develop yet, so it will wash out straightaway. I panic a little as I jump in the bath and throw my head under the water. I begin scrubbing the ends of my hair together with shampoo, and I’m so pleased when I realise it’s actually working, the dye is coming out. The water has turned blue, but when I’m satisfied that all the dye is gone, I lay back and relax in the steaming water. Disaster averted, for once. Who says I’m not good in a crisis?
In my panic to get the dye out, I realise that I’m still wearing my bra and knickers. I unfasten my bra and as I go to slip it off, I realise something. My white bra is blue. Actually, now I’m looking, my hands seem a little blue too. It’s not cold so it must be from the dye. I try to wipe it off but it doesn’t move. Uh oh. I had better get out of this water before I dye my entire body blue. I jump out almost as fast as I jumped in, wrap myself in a towel quickly and try to scrub some of the dye from my body. When I pluck up the courage to look down at myself and check, I’m glad to see it’s not as bad as I’d thought.
I may have wanted to make Lloyd see I’m different, but turning myself into a Smurf would not be the way to do it.
I still look a little cold, but I don’t think it’ll be noticeable tomorrow, and at least the blue-green dye came out of the ends of my hair. I think that was a little bit of genius to jump right in the bath. It’s just lucky that I had one already run, otherwise the dye would have had time to develop, and then it would never have come out. I get dressed and pull the towel off my head, then I pick up my brush and hair bands, and eventually look up at myself in the mirror.
At first, I think my mum has replaced our bathroom mirror with one of those fairground things that make you look all wonky, but this one makes you look like you have green hair. Hah. That’s really clever. It must be her idea of a practical joke.
I start brushing my hair out when I realise something. It’s not just in the mirror. I pull my hair across my shoulder to have a proper look.
Oh. My. God.
My hair is green.
It’s not a joking mirror. My hair is actually green. All of it. All over.
Oh crap.
It’s because I washed the blue out in the bath and put my head underwater, the dye must’ve taken to all of my hair. I hadn’t thought to check my hair. I just thought it had taken to my skin.
Oh God, what am I going to do? It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday night, I have to go to school tomorrow, and the only other hair dyes I have are pink, red or green. I can’t dye over it. I wonder if it will come out with another shampoo? The dye is semi-permanent, and it’s not like it’s bright green, it’s more of an off-green, in fact, it looks like I dyed it green on purpose, and now it’s faded.
I scrub the bath around like my life depends on it, making sure there is no dye lingering in there this time and I set about running another bath. This time, of course, like anything is ever going to go right for me, I’ve used all the hot water up in my first bath, so it’s cold water or nothing. I’ve lost all feeling in my legs approximately three seconds after getting in the bath. Now I can’t tell whether they’re blue from hair dye or because they’re about to drop off from frostbite. But I grin and bear it, because the only thing that I can think of is far from the fantasy of Lloyd sitting behind me tomorrow morning and being impressed by my blue ends. Instead is the reality of Lloyd sitting behind me and laughing because my hair is the colour that you go when you’re about to throw up.
No wonder that shopkeeper wanted to get rid of these quickly. I’d thought he’d meant that he wanted to make space for new stock, but obviously he meant because they make your hair go the colour of pea soup.
I scrub at my scalp and lather my hair until I can’t take the cold anymore, then I jump out and wrap myself in a towel while I shiver. I pull my clothes on because no matter how bad my hair looks, there’s no way I can get back into another cold bath. I take the towel off with trepidation.
Oh. It’s faded a little. Not as much as I had hoped, but at least you can see little bits of the blonde through now. It’s less of a seaweed green. Now it’s more of a seasick green.
“Che—” My mum cuts off abruptly as I come downstairs. “Do you know your hair is green?”
I nod brightly. “I meant for it to be this way.”
“Oh, right.” Mum looks at me sympathetically. “So, what went wrong?”
I shrug. “The blue went green so I washed it off in the bath and my whole head went green instead.”
“That was clever.”
“Ha ha,” I say, sarcastically. Like I intended to dye my hair green. I don’t even like the colour green.
CHAPTER 19
I have figured out one thing at least. I’m going to wear a hat for school. I figure that if I use my most inconspicuous black hat, and try to look normal, maybe the teachers won’t make me take it off. I could ask them quietly before lessons, explain the situation and promise them it will be gone by the next time they see me, and ask if I could please just keep it on for a day or two.
“What’s with the hat?” Debs asks when I meet her that morning.
“You know those hair dyes I bought on Friday? Turns out that they were cheap for a reason.”
“I told you not to mess with it, Chessie. Go on then, show me.”
“No way,�
� I say, horrified. “Besides, if I take this hat off, I’ll never get it back on properly.”
“You know the teachers will never let you keep it on.”
“I’ll ask them nicely.”
I get through form room that morning with no one noticing the hat. Miss Raine doesn’t even look at me. I think that I might be in luck for the rest of the day. It’s not like the hat stands out or anything, it’s just plain black.
“Mademoiselle Clemenfield,” Madame Boswell questions me as she takes registration for French first lesson. “S'il vous plaît enlever le chapeau.”
What? How am I supposed to understand that?
“Pardon?” I ask politely.
She repeats herself.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” I shrug and try to look innocent.
“Okay,” Madame Boswell says, turning to the rest of the class. “Can anybody tell me what I just asked Mademoiselle Clemenfield, who might know herself if the hat she’s wearing wasn’t blocking her ears?”
Leigh’s hand is straight up in the air.
“Yes, Leigh?” Madame Boswell says.
“You asked her to take off the hat, Madame,” Leigh says, like the suck up that she is.
Oh crap. Did she really? I was kind of hoping that she’d just asked my name, or where the nearest library was or something.
“Correct, Mademoiselle Marlow. Come and see me afterwards for a merit point.”
Leigh grins at me. Bitch.
“Francesca.” Madame Boswell turns her attention back to me. “As Mademoiselle Marlow so kindly pointed out, why are you wearing a hat against school rules, and could you please remove it in my classroom?”
I don’t know why she phrases it as a question, because it is most definitely not a question.
“Please, Madame,” I protest. So much for my idea of asking quietly before the lesson begins and the whole class gets to hear me announce I have green hair.
“There is no excuse for disobeying school rules, Francesca. Our uniform is there for a reason, and a hat is not part of it. Please remove it immediately.”
“But I have to wear it. There’s a reason.”
I hope she doesn’t ask me what that reason is because I doubt I have green hair is a good enough one.
“Francesca, this is not up for discussion. If you do indeed have a legitimate reason for wearing that hat in my classroom then please bring me your signed permission slip from your form teacher.”
I look around helplessly. “I don’t have one.”
“As I thought. Please remove the hat.”
“But…”
“Why don’t you give her detention for breaking the rules and answering back to a teacher, Madame?” Leigh asks sweetly.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Marlow, but I have a better idea,” Madame Boswell says.
That can’t be good.
“Take the hat off, Mademoiselle Clemenfield. Anytime this week.”
I’m not going to. I’m seriously not going to. Before I have a chance to do anything, Lloyd’s desk makes a creaking sound as he leans over it, and suddenly the hat is yanked from my head.
My hair explodes into a frizzy green mess.
The class simultaneously erupts into laughter. Lloyd’s somehow seems louder than the rest.
“Thank you, Monsieur Layton. Perhaps now we can return to the lesson.”
I can’t believe he just did that. How dare he pull my hat off like that?
I desperately try to shake my hair out and flatten it down or something. Lloyd throws the hat back at me but it hits my back and lands on the floor. He’s still laughing when I lean down to get it.
I can’t believe this. Not only is my hair green, but it’s super frizzy as well because I forgot to use any conditioner last night. There’s no way I can concentrate on French today. Not when I’m sitting here with my face so red that I must look like a Christmas decoration. Red and green, that’s me.
When the teacher goes to the other side of the classroom, I feel someone’s foot kicking my chair. I want to ignore him, but I can’t.
I spin around and look straight at Lloyd. I can tell he’s trying not to burst out laughing again.
“You know,” he says. “What with that and the red disaster I saw you with a couple of months ago, I really think you should change your hairdresser.”
“Or join the cast of Wicked,” Darren says. He’s sitting next to Lloyd as usual.
I’m so angry and embarrassed that I don’t know what to do. “Thanks for the advice,” I mutter then I turn around in a huff.
Who does Lloyd think he is pulling my hat off like that? What I’m wearing on my head has nothing to do with him. He had no right to get involved like that.
I don’t even care that he just voluntarily spoke to me. He actually kicked my chair so he could talk to me. Even though I have green vomit-like hair.
I don’t think the day can get any worse once French is over. Just as I’m shoving my books back into my bag after the buzzer has gone, Madame Boswell calls me back.
“Here.” She hands me an envelope. “Take this note to the principal’s office at breaktime. You’re not one of the girls I expect to see breaking school rules and I wouldn’t like to think that you’re about to start. I’m disappointed in you, Francesca.”
“But, Madame…”
Oh, come on. The principal’s office? Can’t she see why I was wearing a hat today? It’s not like I’m about to go off on a bender and start doing something really crazy like wearing jewellery or, god forbid, ripped jeans to school.
“If anyone can make you see the importance of school uniform then it’s Mr Sapsford.”
I sigh. It’s pointless arguing with her, especially when Leigh is there as well, waiting for her merit point. She pokes her tongue out at me when the teacher’s back is turned.
So immature.
I can’t believe that I have actually been sent to the principal’s office. I’ve never been to the principal’s office before. I’m a good girl. I don’t wreck things. I do my homework on time. Usually wrong, but on time nonetheless. Most of the teachers like me. I follow the rules. I rarely blow things up.
Mr Sapsford is a tall, imposing figure of a man. He’s way over six feet and has to duck to get through doors. His dark hair is grey flecked and you can see there’s a bald spot at the back.
“Miss Clemenfield,” he says as I sit down. “Seems there’s a first time for everything.”
I nod. I’ve stuffed the hat back on my head. I figure maybe I can plead with him to let me keep it on.
“So, Madame Boswell sent you to me,” he says after reading the envelope I handed him. “Why are you wearing the hat?”
“I look like a Christmas tree.”
He lets out a peal of laughter but stops himself abruptly.
“Everybody has a bad hair day once in a while, Miss Clemenfield, but hats are strictly prohibited during school hours. Please take it off, and don’t let me see it here again.”
I take the hat off. My hair was already frizzy, and after being pushed under my hat again, it now resembles an afro. A green afro.
“That’s not hair dye, is it?” Mr Sapsford asks me.
Did he seriously just ask me that? If it’s not hair dye then what does he bloody well think it is?
“Um…”
“Hair dye is strictly against the rules here, Miss Clemenfield. I will be forced to give you a prolonged period of after school detention if that is indeed hair dye.”
“It’s not. It’s, um… I have an illness,” I lie. “I have this disease. Of the hair follicles, it makes them appear different colours sometimes.”
What? Where the hell did that come from?
“I see,” he says. “I’ve never heard of that. Is it serious?”
“Not really.” I shrug. “It hurts sometimes. I get… um… headaches. And sometimes I wake up and my hair follicles are just, like, burning, and my hairs look a different colour for a while. It only lasts a few days. My leg
hair looks the same, shall I show you?”
“No, no,” he says in horror. “That’s quite all right. What’s the illness called? I think my niece might have the same thing. Her hair is always changing colour.”
“It’s called, um…” Bullshit. Absolute bullshit is its name. I look around the office for inspiration. “It’s called, um, Hairolitis. It’s very rare.”
“Hairolitis. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” He opens a desk drawer, pulls out a pink slip and scribbles something on it. He hands the paper to me. “Here you go. Feel free to wear your hat as often as you like. If anyone questions you about it, just show them this permission slip.”
I don’t believe it. I take the slip from him and read it. It reads “Miss Francesca Clemenfield is entitled to wear a hat at all times,” and it has his signature on it. I do not believe this. He actually bought that story? I think I’m renaming my illness to absolute brilliant bullshit.
“Sorry to have taken up your breaktime, Miss Clemenfield. There’s a mirror in the hallway if you’d like to put your hat back on. Please come straight to me if there is ever anything I can do for you in the future.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I leave the office as quickly as I can before my luck breaks. I can just imagine him going to his secretary and asking whether she’s ever heard of Hairolitis. Actually, I wonder if I should, like, put up a website about it in case he decides to look it up online and realises I was lying. I can’t believe I got away with that. Debs is never going to believe I just did that.
CHAPTER 20
“Chessie!” My mum shouts at me before I’ve even got in the door a couple of days later.
“Yes?” I say, running over in my mind all the things I’ve done wrong lately that she could be angry about.
“Care to explain something to me?” She beckons me over and hands me a letter. I unfold it and read.
Mr. A. Sapsford.
Principal.
Bach Afon Comprehensive School.
Not Pretty Enough Page 10