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.”
“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