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"
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
!
"
