Read the first chapter of Bad Hair Days here!
Chapter One
Injections: check.
Ultraviolet light treatment: check.
Steroid creams – two types: check . . .
Dr Violetta listed the treatments I’d tried. Two of them had made no difference at all; the others had only worked for a few weeks. Going to the surgery made me grumpy and sad. There was never any good news. Ever.
‘Is it worth trying injections again?’ Mum asked the doctor.
‘As I’ve said before, the problem is that once you stop them, Mallow’s hair will fall out again, unless her own immune system kicks into action normally. But as you know, the course of the condition is unpredictable. And with large areas . . . mutter . . . ineffective . . . mutter . . . resolves itself . . . hair growth . . . spontaneously.’
So. Nothing more to be done. That was what Dr Violetta was saying. I switched off. All I could think about was the message I’d received on my mobile earlier.
F●R●E●A●K it had read, the black dots between the spite-filled letters like bullet holes. Someone knew. My secret was no longer a secret.
‘What do you think, Mallow?’
‘Huh?’ Both the doctor and Mum were staring at me.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mallow,’ said Mum, frowning. ‘Doctor, I’m sure you understand what a big thing this is for a teenager to have to put up with. Fifteen months; that’s how long this has been going on. There must be something else we can try. What about hair cell cloning or that new pill they’re using in the US?’
I gazed at Mum. Every evening she sat at the kitchen table, glued to her laptop – she was turning into a walking medical encyclopaedia.
‘We’re a long way from that being an alternative here,’ said Dr Violetta, tapping at her keyboard. ‘I understand this must be frustrating, but we’re doing all we can. Mallow, you’re seeing the dermatologist again in six months, so let’s see what she says.’
‘We were hoping for an appointment before then, weren’t we, Mallow?’ Mum grabbed her bag and stood up.
‘I guess,’ I said.
Dr Violetta removed her glasses and pressed the skin under her eyes. ‘It’s a question of waiting lists.’ She swivelled her chair to face me. ‘In my opinion your scalp might benefit from having a rest from treatments, anyway.’
As we drove to pick Cal up from his friend’s, I itched to tell Mum about the message. But that nerve in her jaw was twitching, and her knuckles had turned stripy red and white from clenching the steering wheel.
‘There has to be something out there somewhere. Don’t worry, love, we won’t give up,’ she said, staring grimly through the windscreen. ‘Even if we have to get you to the States.’
‘Can we afford it?’
‘We’ll think of something. I’ll talk to your dad when he’s next home.’
Going to the US seemed as likely as flying to Jupiter. It would cost way more than Mum and Dad could afford. They’d already forked out thousands on my wigs made from real hair. And what would happen to Gran? One of the reasons we’d moved into Gran’s house was so Mum could look after her when she got out of hospital. She wouldn’t want to stick her own mum in a nursing home, even if it was only temporary. And Bilbo would hate being in kennels for weeks. If only Dad were at home. Sometimes he was easier to talk to than stressy Mum, who was always ‘busy, busy, busy’ sorting out this, or making plans for that. But Dad was miles away. On an oil rig. In the North Sea. The Middle of Nowhere. He couldn’t get further away if he tried.
Mum started nattering on about Gran’s pneumonia (she was super-ill this time), and Cal’s new photography club (he was doing so well). I rubbed a sleeve over the steamed-up side window. It had rained since we’d been in the surgery and dark blobby clouds were still over the town. The wet tarmac glowed orange from the streetlights. We turned into the blustery promenade. A wide strip of paving hugged the shingle beach on one side and the main road ran along the other. At the end was the crazy golf course and a metal sculpture. It was supposed to look like the Eiffel Tower but I thought it was more like a mini electricity pylon. Very classy. There were wooden panels around the tower, which stood on a concrete platform jutting onto the beach. When the tide came in, the tower was surrounded by water on three sides. When there was a gale, it creaked and whistled.
The rush hour traffic had slowed to a crawl. A couple of gulls screeched overhead. Now and then a car whooshed by in the opposite lane, spraying puddle-water in all directions. As we inched past the statue of a man looking out to sea – I could never remember his name – a movement flickered at the corner of my eye. I twisted round. As usual, an orange traffic cone was on the statue’s head. But there was something else. A dark, hooded shape with a backpack crouched at the base of the statue, as if tying a loose shoelace. Something in the way he checked around himself made me stare harder, but the rain on the window obscured my view. As the car finally began to move faster, the figure blurred and disappeared.
Injections: check.
Ultraviolet light treatment: check.
Steroid creams – two types: check . . .
Dr Violetta listed the treatments I’d tried. Two of them had made no difference at all; the others had only worked for a few weeks. Going to the surgery made me grumpy and sad. There was never any good news. Ever.
‘Is it worth trying injections again?’ Mum asked the doctor.
‘As I’ve said before, the problem is that once you stop them, Mallow’s hair will fall out again, unless her own immune system kicks into action normally. But as you know, the course of the condition is unpredictable. And with large areas . . . mutter . . . ineffective . . . mutter . . . resolves itself . . . hair growth . . . spontaneously.’
So. Nothing more to be done. That was what Dr Violetta was saying. I switched off. All I could think about was the message I’d received on my mobile earlier.
F●R●E●A●K it had read, the black dots between the spite-filled letters like bullet holes. Someone knew. My secret was no longer a secret.
‘What do you think, Mallow?’
‘Huh?’ Both the doctor and Mum were staring at me.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mallow,’ said Mum, frowning. ‘Doctor, I’m sure you understand what a big thing this is for a teenager to have to put up with. Fifteen months; that’s how long this has been going on. There must be something else we can try. What about hair cell cloning or that new pill they’re using in the US?’
I gazed at Mum. Every evening she sat at the kitchen table, glued to her laptop – she was turning into a walking medical encyclopaedia.
‘We’re a long way from that being an alternative here,’ said Dr Violetta, tapping at her keyboard. ‘I understand this must be frustrating, but we’re doing all we can. Mallow, you’re seeing the dermatologist again in six months, so let’s see what she says.’
‘We were hoping for an appointment before then, weren’t we, Mallow?’ Mum grabbed her bag and stood up.
‘I guess,’ I said.
Dr Violetta removed her glasses and pressed the skin under her eyes. ‘It’s a question of waiting lists.’ She swivelled her chair to face me. ‘In my opinion your scalp might benefit from having a rest from treatments, anyway.’
As we drove to pick Cal up from his friend’s, I itched to tell Mum about the message. But that nerve in her jaw was twitching, and her knuckles had turned stripy red and white from clenching the steering wheel.
‘There has to be something out there somewhere. Don’t worry, love, we won’t give up,’ she said, staring grimly through the windscreen. ‘Even if we have to get you to the States.’
‘Can we afford it?’
‘We’ll think of something. I’ll talk to your dad when he’s next home.’
Going to the US seemed as likely as flying to Jupiter. It would cost way more than Mum and Dad could afford. They’d already forked out thousands on my wigs made from real hair. And what would happen to Gran? One of the reasons we’d moved into Gran’s house was so Mum could look after her when she got out of hospital. She wouldn’t want to stick her own mum in a nursing home, even if it was only temporary. And Bilbo would hate being in kennels for weeks. If only Dad were at home. Sometimes he was easier to talk to than stressy Mum, who was always ‘busy, busy, busy’ sorting out this, or making plans for that. But Dad was miles away. On an oil rig. In the North Sea. The Middle of Nowhere. He couldn’t get further away if he tried.
Mum started nattering on about Gran’s pneumonia (she was super-ill this time), and Cal’s new photography club (he was doing so well). I rubbed a sleeve over the steamed-up side window. It had rained since we’d been in the surgery and dark blobby clouds were still over the town. The wet tarmac glowed orange from the streetlights. We turned into the blustery promenade. A wide strip of paving hugged the shingle beach on one side and the main road ran along the other. At the end was the crazy golf course and a metal sculpture. It was supposed to look like the Eiffel Tower but I thought it was more like a mini electricity pylon. Very classy. There were wooden panels around the tower, which stood on a concrete platform jutting onto the beach. When the tide came in, the tower was surrounded by water on three sides. When there was a gale, it creaked and whistled.
The rush hour traffic had slowed to a crawl. A couple of gulls screeched overhead. Now and then a car whooshed by in the opposite lane, spraying puddle-water in all directions. As we inched past the statue of a man looking out to sea – I could never remember his name – a movement flickered at the corner of my eye. I twisted round. As usual, an orange traffic cone was on the statue’s head. But there was something else. A dark, hooded shape with a backpack crouched at the base of the statue, as if tying a loose shoelace. Something in the way he checked around himself made me stare harder, but the rain on the window obscured my view. As the car finally began to move faster, the figure blurred and disappeared.
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