by Nigel Smith
“I dunno,” said Nat, still shaken from her brush with fame outside.
“Come on – people are going to look at you anyway,” said Dad. “At least this way you’ll get something out of it.”
Yes, and I should be used to being stared at by now, being in your stupid company, Nat thought to herself glumly.
Top stylist Suki Glossop, a young woman with half her head shaved, a collection of piercings and a big tattoo of a dragon up her arm, started fluffing up Nat’s hair.
“Get off,” said Nat.
“Can you do something with it?” asked Mrs Hideous.
“You’re not giving me quality materials to work with,” Suki said, sounding very bored.
“Hey,” said Nat, “that’s me you’re talking about. I AM quality materials, thank you very much.”
“Just do what you can, OK?” said Mrs Hideous to Suki Glossop. “You’ve got Elsie Stain booked in for a shampoo and set at eleven and you know how she gets if we’re not ready. Especially if she’s started on the sherry early.”
“I thought modelling was supposed to be glamorous, Dad,” hissed Nat as Suki started preparing her scissors and brushes. “This place is horrible. It smells of burned hair and cats and it’s full of mad old people.”
“That’s why they need you, love,” explained Dad. “You’re their bit of glamour. You should be flattered.”
Nathalia didn’t feel very glamorous when her head was shoved in the sink and red-hot water sprayed all over it.
“Ow ow ow!” gasped Nat as her head boiled.
“It needs a hot wash to get the muck out,” said Suki, scrubbing shampoo into Nat’s tender scalp.
“There’s no muck IN,” said Nat, offended.
“Sorry, she doesn’t wash her hair very much,” said Dad. “I’d offer to do it for her, but she says she’s too old these days. But this is the result – manky hair.”
“I have NOT got manky hair!” bubbled Nat from the sink, mouth full of shampoo. Her whole head was a big afro of foam. “Shut up, Dad.”
Eventually her hair was de-mucked enough for Suki to begin drying, which she insisted on doing with a rough towel, by hand, very hard.
“You’re very lucky,” said Suki, with a pout. “I wanted to be the hair model, but apparently I’m not as famous as you.”
“You’re pulling,” complained Nat, buried under the scratchy towel. “Ouchy!”
“I can’t put you under the dryer – you’ve got such weak roots they’ll just frazzle to a crisp,” said Suki.
“Hear that, Dad?” said Nat. “Weak roots. I know where I get those from.” Dad put his hand up to his thinning thatch.
“Does she always complain this much?” asked Mrs Hideous, coming over with a tub of the gloopy gel.
“She’s not TOO bad,” said Dad, who liked talking about Nat to people when she was sitting right next to him. “Although she moaned and moaned when I wouldn’t let her have her ears pierced.”
“What’s wrong with getting your ears pierced?” said Suki, rubbing Nat’s head even harder. Shuddup, Dad, thought Nat. Can’t you see this woman’s got twelve earrings in each ear??? Not to mention the one in her nose. Or eyebrow. In fact, she’s got more piercings than FACE.
“Nothing WRONG with them,” said Dad. “It’s just that children look horrible with earrings. Also, it hurts them. Parents who give their kids earrings should be arrested.”
“My little Trayvon and D’Shaun have BOTH got earrings,” growled Suki. “And they’ve had them since they were two years old.” Nat’s head was getting squashed.
“That’s nice,” said Dad. “Um – is her hair dry now?”
Suki whipped off the towel, grabbed a massive handful of the gel and slapped it on Nat’s head with a splat. Nat could feel it trickling down her neck.
“That’s rather a lot,” said Mrs Hideous, but then she saw the dark expression on Suki’s face and slid off out of the way.
“I think something EXTREME to start,” said Suki. “Unless Daddy’s little girl can’t handle it?”
Nat had had enough of Suki flipping Glossop. Dad might be embarrassing, but this girl was unpleasant and rude. And she was NOT going to let her think she was some silly kid.
Suki began to style. She yanked and pulled and twisted her hair, but Nat wouldn’t let on that it hurt. She was a very determined girl and shut her eyes tight and didn’t utter a squeak until she heard:
“Finished. Waddya think?”
She opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t complain NO MATTER HOW HORRIBLE it was.
But it wasn’t horrible.
It was wild, it was wacky.
But it was WONDERFUL.
Her new crazy hairstyle was huge and daring and exciting and Nat thought it made her look five years older at least.
It was swept back and up and over and out and high. It made Nat’s thin, straight hair look full and curly and spiky and super-glamorous. It was the sort of hairstyle that only miserable-looking models on the front of proper posh magazines have.
Nat posed in front of the mirror, not believing her eyes, ducking down and turning this way and that to see the whole, massive creation.
She LOVED it.
“It’s terrible,” said Dad.
“It’s – flipping – brilliant,” said Nat.
“Told you I was good,” said Suki, grinning smugly.
Oh my gosh, this is the kind of hairstyle that the cool kids at school will want but their parents won’t let them have, thought Nat. Which means that finally, after all this time, I’m actually one of the cool kids.
“I don’t like it,” said Dad.
“Too bad,” sniffed Mrs Hideous. “She has to wear it like that all day, along with a T-shirt advertising the salon.”
She handed Nat a cheap-looking bright red T-shirt with THE FINAL CUT printed on it.
“She can’t go out in public like that,” said Dad.
“She can and she will. It’s in the contract,” said Mrs Hideous. “Just above where you signed.”
“I can’t read that, I left my glasses in the van,” admitted Dad.
“Then why did you sign it?” asked Nat.
“Don’t interfere,” said Dad. “I’m talking business – you won’t understand.”
“You might have signed me up for anything,” wailed Nat. “You could have signed me up for the army, or for scientific experiments. You are rubbish.”
“That’s not fair,” said Dad, feeling a bit harassed. “You just said you liked the hair.”
“Not the point.” Nat looked at herself in the mirror. It was true though; she DID like it, so she couldn’t be annoyed at Dad for too long.
“Who’s doing the photographs?” asked Dad. “Is it one of those paparazzi who take pictures of all the stars?”
“We don’t believe in paying photographers,” said Mrs Hideous. “It says in the contract you’ll take the pictures. It makes it more natural.”
It makes it more cheap, you mean, thought Nat, who was feeling less and less like a celebrity by the second.
“I’ve always fancied myself as a celebrity snapper,” said Dad. “I once took a photo of Nat that made it into the local paper. She won a beautiful toddler contest.”
“For BOYS,” said Nat. “Remember? It was a beautiful boy contest.”
“Yeah, but you still won,” said Dad. “You got that scooter.”
“You said that was from Santa!” said Nat, remembering the scooter. “You massive cheapskate.”
“Now off you go,” said Mrs Hideous, who wanted Dad out of her salon as quickly as possible. “Try and take the picture somewhere pretty.”
“Round here?” said Dad, laughing. “Not likely – this is the most horrible street in town.”
“I live above the salon,” said Mrs Hideous, hands on hips.
“And I live next door, above the launderette,” said Suki.
“We’re leaving now, bye!” said Nat quickly, dragging
Dad outside by the hand.
“Be careful with the hair,” shouted Suki, just as a massive lorry thundered past. “Don’t let it get wet.”
“What did she say?” asked Nat as they walked back to the Atomic Dustbin. People were staring at her again, but this time she didn’t mind; she knew they were only staring at her AMAZING HAIR. She felt like a film star.
“Dunno, there was too much traffic and I couldn’t hear properly. Something about keeping it wet? Probably helps the shine.”
“Righty ho,” said Nat, skipping along and not paying attention, but checking out her awesome reflection in every shop window. A number 3 bus trundled by.
“Oooh, Dad,” she said, reminded of her little monster of a mate. “Can we go and show Darius?”
“No problem. I’ll just pop in the mini market for a bottle of water for your hair. I don’t want those ladies to think I get EVERYTHING wrong.”
OR ONCE NAT WAS GLAD SHE WAS IN THE HORRIBLE, huge Atomic Dustbin because at least it had room for her enormous hair.
“I’ve got to show Darius,” she said, forgetting momentarily that she was angry with him. “If we follow the bus route, we might spot him.”
“Hmm,” said Dad, pulling into traffic. “Unlikely, and I hadn’t planned on spending my Saturday hunting down Darius Bagley.”
“He said something about a job,” said Nat, “but that can’t be right.”
“Oh, in that case I might know what he’s doing,” said Dad, in a strained tone of voice Nat recognised as DAD THINKING.
“No one would give Darius a job,” said Nat. “They might pay him NOT to work for them.”
Dad pulled over in a space that said TAXIS ONLY. He was concentrating. “Lemme think. I was talking to Dolores – that’s Miss Hunny to you – the other day,” he began.
“I wish you’d stop talking to my form teacher. It’s really embarrassing.”
“You know we were at college together,” said Dad. “When we were young and silly. Oh I could tell you stories …”
“Please, please don’t, I’m begging you and I’m not even joking,” said Nat, putting her fingers in her ears.
Behind them, an angry taxi driver hooted for Dad to move his van. Dad ignored it. “Anyway, Miss Hunny was saying that Darius got in big trouble last term. Any idea what for?”
Nat had loads.
“Was it putting a baked potato into Mr MacAnuff’s exhaust pipe and watching the engine fall out in bits?” said Nat. “Because I don’t think anyone knows that was him.”
“No, not that,” said Dad, who didn’t much like Mr MacAnuff the school caretaker so wasn’t going to grass Darius up.
“Was it supergluing all the maths books together?”
“No.”
“Was it talking so much in double science that Miss Van Der Graaf ran out crying?”
“No.”
Nat wracked her brains. There was so much choice. Not ever doing his homework? Singing in French? Writing verses 250 to 253 of his epic poem about poo on the white board? Hiding in the cupboard during history?
“Oh, I know,” said Dad, above the sound of angry hooting. “It was not having the school badge on his blazer.”
“Not having the badge?” said Nat, shocked. “Dad, that’s just stupid. He hasn’t got a proper blazer because Oswald keeps selling them. He got an old one from a charity shop, but it was for a different school. It’s not his fault, Dad.”
“No, but I guess a lot of other stuff IS,” said Dad, although Nat could tell he was on Darius’s side. “Miss Hunny stood up for him, and she told me she was going to suggest he did something useful for a change. It’s supposed to be a sort of punishment, but I thought it sounded like fun.”
“What is it?” asked Nat.
“Are you going to shift your ruddy great van from my parking space or are we going to have to take it outside?” said the taxi driver at Dad’s window.
“We ARE outside,” said Dad.
“Trying to be funny?” said the taxi driver aggressively.
“All the time,” said Dad. “It’s not easy either.”
The angry taxi driver grabbed the door handle and was about to yank it open when he saw Nathalia under her hair.
“Here, it’s you!” he shouted, suddenly smiling and showing big gold teeth. “Tell you what – if you say it, I’ll let your old dad off without a good beating.”
“Can’t you be NORMAL, Dad?” shouted Nat. She meant it too.
Eventually, after saying it a few more times, Dad was able to drive off safely.
“Quite useful, you being so famous,” said Dad cheerfully. “I bet you’re glad Darius gave me that video now.”
“Oh, I’m going to show him just how glad I am,” said Nat, thinking happy evil thoughts.
It wasn’t long before they reached a quieter part of town and soon Dad was slowing down outside a large old house in a street full of large old houses. This one was in the worst state of the lot.
The house was mostly red brick, with large windows and a pointy slate roof. It must have once been a bit grand, but not any longer. The bricks were stained, the roof crooked and the paintwork on the windows was old and peeling. There was a short drive flanked by two overgrown hedges. Dad turned the wheel and drove in and they bumped over potholes in the drive. Nat could hear a horrible wailing and barking and howling coming from inside the house. She noticed there were FOR SALE signs on the houses either side.
Then she saw a large blue and white sign which read:
PORTER OGDEN’S HOME FOR
UNFORTUNATE CREATURES.
DONATIONS WELCOME
Underneath someone had handwritten:
I mean donations of money, not more animals. Stop leaving them on the doorstep in cardboard boxes, will you?
“Is Darius living here now?” laughed Nat. “He’s an unfortunate animal.”
“Very good,” said Dad. “But no. This is where he’s working at weekends.”
“Why?” asked Nat.
“Because Miss Hunny says it’ll show Darius what it’s like trying to teach him.”
“I wish she wasn’t your friend,” said Nat. “I’d really like to like her.” She checked her hairstyle in the rear-view mirror for the tenth time. It was still ace.
“It’s gone a bit dry,” said Dad, peering at the crazy hairdo. “Shall I sprinkle some water on like we were told?”
“Yeah, whatevs, just hurry up. I want to show Darius before I batter him. He thinks I’m a goody two-shoes. Well a goody two-shoes does not have hair like THIS!”
Dad splashed on a bit of water and Nat hopped down from the van. It was quite a blustery day, but even though litter was being whirled around on the drive, Nat’s huge wild hair stayed in place.
“You’d think someone would sweep these streets more often, wouldn’t you, Dad?” said Nat, trying to dodge the litter.
“The local paper blames the council,” said Dad. “Your mum blames the government and Bad News Nan blames Europe, television, video games, bad parents, rap videos, footballers, mobile phones, wind turbines, vegetarians, gum chewers and the fact that we can’t hang people any more.”
“Who do you blame?” asked Nat, batting away an empty crisp packet.
“I just blame people who drop litter,” said Dad. “It saves a lot of time.”
By now they had reached the stained front door. There were bite and claw marks all over it. The howling and yelping and barking was louder here, and they could also hear frantic scrabbling and crashing as if something horrible was running wild inside.
“I’m sure it’s supposed to sound like that in there,” said Dad, not sounding sure one little bit.
Just as they were about to ring the bell they heard an elderly man’s voice: “That’s it, Bagley, tempt it back in the cage with that mouse. If that fails, use your hand as live bait.”
Nat turned to Dad, hand paused above the doorbell. “Although,” she said carefully, “we’re back to school next week. I could see him then. PLU
S, it might not be Darius in there. He might be talking to a different Bagley.”
Something that sounded like a small lion snarled and growled inside.
“Live bait? You can get lost, poo breath,” came Darius’s voice. “If I put my hand in that cage I won’t have a finger left to pick my nose with.”
“Simba, in!” shouted the elderly man.
“That doesn’t work,” said Darius. “You know it doesn’t work because you’ve been shouting that for an hour and Simba is still not in. Do something different to shouting ‘Simba, in’.”
“Simba?” said Nat.
“Yes, I know, it sounds like a lion’s name, but you need to be a zoo to keep a lion,” said Dad. He checked the sign. “No, it’s not a zoo.”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” he said, ringing the doorbell.
“Oh,” said Dad, looking at Nat. “That’s odd.”
“What?” snapped Nat, who was already jittery waiting for the door to open.
“That crisp packet has stuck to the back of your hair.”
“Get it out then.”
“I mean, it’s really stuck. Your hair has gone very sticky. It’s just a guess, but I think something might have gone a bit wrong.”
AT WAS ABOUT TO PANIC OVER HER HAIR WHEN the door opened and an ancient man with a face covered in plasters appeared.
He wore a shredded cardigan, slashed brown trousers, chewed slippers and one lens of his glasses had been smashed.
“Are you from the council?” he said, peering through his broken specs. “Sorry about the noise. And the smell. And all the escaped things. Have you come to put me in prison? It’s fine, you know, I don’t mind. I could do with a rest from all of this.”
Nat wasn’t listening; she was trying to pull the crisp packet off her head. This wasn’t how she wanted to show off to Darius. As she tugged at the packet, she realised just how glue-like the BOGWASH hair stuff was. Her hand was in danger of getting stuck as well and she yanked it away with difficulty.
“I don’t even mind sharing a cell with Sid the Sidcup Strangler,” said the old man desperately. “That’s nothing to the horrors I’ve seen in this house. Nothing, I tell you.”