platinum-blond man
there was no doubt in matilda's mind that this latest display of foulness by her father deserved
severe punishment, and as she sat eating her awful fried fish and fried chips and ignoring the
television, her brain went to work on various possibilities. by the time she went up to bed her
mind was made up.
the next morning she got up early and went into the bathroom and locked the door. as we already
know, mrs wormwood's hair was dyed a brilliant platinum blonde, very much the same glistening
silvery colour as a female tightrope-walker's tights in a circus. the big dyeing job was done twice
a year at the hairdresser's, but every month or so in between, mrs wormwood used to freshen it up
by giving it a rinse in the washbasin with something called platinum blonde hair-dye extra strong.
this also served to dye the nasty brown hairs that kept growing from the roots underneath. the
bottle of platinum blonde hair-dye extra strong was kept in the cupboard in the
bathroom, and underneath the title on the label were written the words caution, this is peroxide.
keep away from children. matilda had read it many times with fascination. matilda's father had a
fine crop of black hair which he parted in the middle and of which he was exceedingly proud.
"good strong hair," he was fond of saying, "means there's a good strong brain underneath."
"like shakespeare," matilda had once said to him.
"like who?"
"shakespeare, daddy."
"was he brainy?"
"very, daddy."
"he had masses of hair, did he?"
"he was bald, daddy."
to which the father had snapped, "if you can't talk sense then shut up."
anyway, mr wormwood kept his hair looking bright and strong, or so he thought, by rubbing into
it every morning large quantities of a lotion called oil of violets hair tonic. a bottle of this smelly
purple mixture always stood on the shelf above the sink in the bathroom alongside all the
toothbrushes, and a very vigorous scalp massage with oil of violets took place daily after shaving
was completed. this hair and scalp massage was always, accompanied by loud masculine grunts
and heavy breathing and gasps of "ahhh, that's better! that's the stuff! rub it right into the roots!"
which could be clearly heard by matilda in her bedroom across the corridor.
now, in the early morning privacy of the bathroom, matilda unscrewed the cap of her father's oil
of violets and tipped three-quarters of the contents down the drain. then she filled the bottle up
with her mother's platinum blonde hair-dye extra strong. she carefully left enough of her father's
original hair tonic in the bottle so that when she gave it a good shake the whole thing still looked
reasonably purple. she then replaced the bottle on the shelf above the sink, taking care to put her
mother's bottle back in the cupboard. so far so good.
at breakfast time matilda sat quietly at the dining-room table eating her cornflakes. her brother
sat opposite her with his back to the door devouring hunks of bread smothered with a mixture of
peanut-butter and strawberry jam. the mother was just out of sight around the corner in the
kitchen making mr wormwood's breakfast which always had to be two fried eggs on fried bread
with three pork sausages and three strips of bacon and some fried tomatoes.
at this point mr wormwood came noisily into the room. he was incapable of entering any room
quietly, especially at breakfast time. he always had to make his appearance felt immediately by
creating a lot of noise and clatter. one could almost hear him saying, "it's me! here i come, the
great man himself, the master of the house, the wage-earner, the one who makes it possible for all
the rest of you to live so well! notice me and pay your respects!"
on this occasion he strode in and slapped his son on the back and shouted, "well my boy, your
father feels he's in for another great money-making day today at the garage! i've got a few little
beauties i'm going to flog to the idiots this morning. where's my breakfast?"
"it's coming, treasure," mrs wormwood called from the kitchen.
matilda kept her face bent low over her cornflakes. she didn't dare look up. in the first place she
wasn't at all sure what she was going to see. and secondly, if she did see what she thought she was
going to see, she wouldn't trust herself to keep a straight face. the son was looking directly ahead
out of the window stuffing himself with bread and peanut-butter and strawberry jam.
the father was just moving round to sit at the head of the table when the mother came sweeping
out from the kitchen carrying a huge plate piled high with eggs and sausages and bacon and
tomatoes. she looked up. she caught sight of her husband. she stopped dead. then she let out a
scream that seemed to lift her right up into the air and she dropped the plate with a crash and a
splash on to the floor. everyone jumped, including mr wormwood.
"what the heck's the matter with you, woman?" he shouted. "look at the mess you've made on the
carpet!"
"your hair!" the mother was shrieking, pointing a quivering finger at her husband. "look at your
hair! what've you done to your hair?"
"what's wrong with my hair for heaven's sake?" he said.
"oh my gawd dad, what've you done to your hair?" the son shouted.
a splendid noisy scene was building up nicely in the breakfast room.
matilda said nothing. she simply sat there admiring the wonderful effect of her own handiwork.
mr wormwood's fine crop of black hair was now a dirty silver, the colour this time of a tightrope-
walker's tights that had not been washed for the entire circus season.
"you've . . . you've . . . you've dyed it!" shrieked the mother. "why did you do it, you fool! it looks
absolutely frightful! it looks horrendous! you look like a freak!"
"what the blazes are you all talking about?" the father yelled, putting both hands to his hair. "i
most certainly have not dyed it! what d'you mean i've dyed it? what's happened to it? or is this
some sort of a stupid joke?" his face was turning pale green, the colour of sour apples.
"you must have dyed it, dad," the son said. "it's the same colour as mum's only much dirtier
looking."
"of course he's dyed it!" the mother cried. "it can't change colour all by itself! what on earth were
you trying to do, make yourself look handsome or something? you look like someone's
grandmother gone wrong!"
"get me a mirror!" the father yelled. "don't just stand there shrieking at me! get me a mirror!"
the mother's handbag lay on a chair at the other end of the table. she opened the bag and got out a
powder compact that had a small round mirror on the inside of the lid. she opened the compact
and handed it to her husband. he grabbed it and held it before his face and in doing so spilled most
of
the powder all over the front of his fancy tweed jacket.
"be careful!" shrieked the mother. "now look what you've done! that's my best elizabeth arden
face powder!"
"oh my gawd!" yelled the father, staring into the little mirror. "what's happened to me! i look
terrible! i look just like you gone wrong! i can't go down to the garage and sell cars like this! how
did it happen?" he stared round the room, first at the mother, then at the son, then at matilda.
"how could it have happened?" he yelled.
"i imagine, daddy," matilda said quietly, "that you weren't looking very hard and you simply took
mummy's bottle of hair stuff off the shelf instead of your own."
"of course that's what happened!" the mother cried. "well really harry, how stupid can you get?
why didn't you read the label before you started splashing the stuff all over you! mine's terribly
strong. i'm only meant to use one tablespoon of it in a whole basin of water and you've gone and
put it all over your head neat! it'll probably take all your hair off in the end! is your scalp
beginning to burn, dear?"
"you mean i'm going to lose all my hair?" the husband yelled.
"i think you will," the mother said. "peroxide is a very powerful chemical. it's what they put down
the lavatory to disinfect the pan only they give it another name."
"what are you saying!" the husband cried. "i'm not a lavatory pan! i don't want to be disinfected!"
"even diluted like i use it," the mother told him, "it makes a good deal of my hair fall out, so
goodness knows what's going to happen to you. i'm surprised it didn't take the whole of the top of
your head off!"
"what shall i do?" wailed the father. "tell me quick what to do before it starts falling out!"
matilda said, "i'd give it a good wash, dad, if i were you, with soap and water. but you'll have to
hurry."
"will that change the colour back?" the father asked anxiously.
"of course it won't, you twit," the mother said.
"then what do i do? i can't go around looking like this for ever?"
"you'll have to have it dyed black," the mother said. "but wash it first or there won't be any there
to dye."
"right!" the father shouted, springing into action. "get me an appointment with your hairdresser
this instant for a hair-dyeing job! tell them it's an emergency! they've got to boot someone else
off their list! i'm going upstairs to wash it now!" with that the man dashed out of the room and
mrs wormwood, sighing deeply, went to the telephone to call the beauty parlour.
"he does do some pretty silly things now and again, doesn't he, mummy?" matilda said.
the mother, dialling the number on the phone, said, "i'm afraid men are not always quite as clever
as they think they are. you will learn that when you get a bit older, my girl."