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 t
he 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.