Nathalia Buttface and the Most Embarrassing Five Minutes of Fame Ever. Nigel Smith

be the term where I got popular. But no, I’m going to be back down in the ‘getting laughed at’ spot again.”

      “Would a hundred pounds make you feel any better?” asked Dad, over the sound of sizzling bacon.

      “Ivor, you can’t just give her a hundred pounds to make her stop shouting at you,” said Mum. “That’s a terrible idea, even for you.”

      “It’s not FROM me,” said Dad, smiling, “it’s from the hair salon in town. They saw you doing that thing I’m not going to say because I don’t want to be shouted at again, and they want you to be a model for them, and it’s all thanks to Dad!”

      “What if she doesn’t WANT to be a model?” asked Mum. “My little girl doesn’t need a load of people telling her how pretty and wonderful and beautiful she is, and giving her money just for being gorgeous, do you, Nat?”

      There was a long pause, when all that could be heard was the sizzle of the smoky pan.

      “Yeah, that sounds horrible,” said Nat slowly, thinking that it sounded rather nice, on the whole. “Although … maybe I should let poor old Dad try and make it up to me. It’ll make him feel better.”

      Dad smiled. “They recognised you from the – the – you know, the thing, and left a message on the website saying that you were the perfect girl to advertise their new styling gel.”

      “I’m not saying yes,” said Nat, “but is it cash and what do I have to do?”

      Mum looked at the two of them. “You’re both as bad as each other,” she said with a sigh.

      “Dad doesn’t get EVERYTHING wrong,” said Nat.

      Then the smoke alarm went off as Dad set the pan on fire.

      

      OU DO LOOK FUNNY WITH ALL YOUR EYEBROWS burned off,” chuckled Nat as they reached the hair salon. “Maybe you should get one of the ladies in here to draw some on for you? Loads of people do it.”

      “No, loads of women do it,” corrected Dad.

      “Or maybe they can stick some real hair on from all the clippings,” giggled Nat. “There’s tons on the floor – black ones, blonde ones, curly—”

      “If you don’t mention it, no one will notice,” said Dad.

      “Rubbish,” laughed Nat as they went inside the shop. “The only reason no one’s pointed and laughed at me today is because they’re all pointing and laughing at you.”

      “Glad to help,” said Dad with a fixed smile.

      The salon was called THE FINAL CUT and was decorated with pictures of movie stars.

      “Why’s it called ‘The Final Cut’?” asked Dad when he met the manager. “You’ve changed the name. It used to be ‘Curl up and Dye’.”

      “Yes, we thought it would give us a more Hollywood Image,” said the manager, who was called Irene Hideous and had leathery orange skin and severe, short blonde hair. “You know, like they say ‘cut’ when they make films.”

      “Yes, but ‘The Final Cut’ sounds more like someone having their head chopped off,” said Dad brightly. “Get it?”

      There was a horrible pause.

      “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Irene Hideous. “That sign cost us a fortune, and so did all those pictures. I’m not changing it again so please don’t tell my customers that.”

      Nat sighed.

      “You could do a Halloween theme though,” continued Dad, enthusiastic and embarrassing as ever. “You could have a big chopping block over there and customers could put their head on it and you could cut their hair while you ask them if they’ve got any last requests.”

      “Last requests?” said a very old lady who had just come out from under a dryer. Her hair was bright blue. “My last request is to have my ashes put in a big egg timer. I do like to be useful. Even though nobody notices.”

      “Shut up, Mum,” said another elderly woman sitting next to her.

      “Besides,” continued the very old lady, “my daughter here hasn’t managed to boil me a decent egg for sixty years.”

      “If that’s the way you feel about it, you can pay for your own hairdo,” said her daughter, storming out.

      Irene Hideous looked at Dad venomously.

      “Now she’s gone I can tell you my REAL last request,” cackled the old lady. She then said something SO RUDE that Nat thought her ears were going to fall off.

      Quickly the manager ushered Nat and Dad into the back of the salon, next to the sinks.

      “RIGHT, well, we’re trying to attract younger customers,” explained Mrs Hideous, “so we thought the ‘Can’t you be normal’ girl—”

      “My name’s Nathalia,” said Nat.

      “Yes, you, apparently you’re a new celebrity that is popular with youngsters. You’re not even that bad-looking,” said Mrs Hideous as she grabbed Nat’s face and started pulling the skin around. “There are cheekbones in there, somewhere.”

      This isn’t like being a model in the way Mum said, thought Nat as her face was squished. She quite liked being called a ‘celebrity’ though.

      Irene Hideous ran her long, bony orange fingers through Nat’s hair, sizing it up expertly.

      “Oh dear,” she said. “It’s a bit thin.”

      “I get it from baldy here,” said Nat, who was getting fed up with the way this was turning out. After all, wasn’t she supposed to be a celebrity now?

      Dad tried to cover The Bald Spot Which Must Not Be Named with both hands.

      “It’ll have to do,” decided Mrs Hideous.

      She reached under the counter and brought out a big plastic tub of what looked like clear jelly.

      “This is our own invention. We call it Bio-Organic Gel With A Steady Hold.”

      “BOGWASH,” said Dad.

      “Dad!” said Nat, horrified.

      “I beg your pardon,” said Mrs Hideous.

      “The first letters of ‘Bio-Organic Gel With A Steady Hold’,” explained Dad. “It spells BOGWASH.”

      “I’ve ordered five thousand labels from LABELS R US in the town centre now,” said Mrs Hideous, who looked like she was regretting letting Dad within a hundred yards of her salon. “DO NOT repeat that. No one’s going to want that on their head.”

      Nathalia stared out of the big glass windows into the street and tried to pretend she wasn’t there. Why did I let Dad talk me into this? she thought.

      As she stared blankly at a queue of people waiting for a bus she saw a very familiar sight. There, fidgeting and talking to himself, was Darius Bagley.

      Her first thought was: Hey, great, Darius, I’ll see what he’s up to because that’s always a laugh.

      Her second thought, about 0.00000001 seconds later was: DARIUS SHOWED DAD HOW TO MAKE THE WEBSITE AND UPLOAD THAT VIDEO AND RUIN MY LIFE AND SO HE MUST DIE.

      “Just sign the contract, I’ll be back in five minutes,” yelled Nat, running out of the salon and knocking over a hairdryer.

      She