Scissors Sisters & Manic Panics. Ellie Phillips

      So anyway, there they all were when I walked in that evening: Mum, Great Aunty Rita, Uncle Zé, Aunt Lilah, Billy and Abe. I’d been home after school and got changed and then I’d decided to put a colour through my hair – partly because I wanted a new look for when I went into that cool-looking salon the next day to ask for a job, and partly because I hoped it would wind up Aunt Lilah. I had of course thought about boycotting Friday night dinner altogether, being that I was so pissed off at Aunty for firing me, and of course at the exact same time I was full of insecurity that she might have been right to do so. But I knew I was going to have to face her eventually and Mum had already invited Abe, and so I did Revenge Hair (a do that is sooo good your enemy will admit defeat) and used Goldfinger from SFX. I just put one streak in right at the front. It looked completely genius.

      ‘We’re all waiting for you – what happened to your hair?’ said Aunt Lilah as I sashayed to the table like the room was a giant runway at the grand final of the Thames Gateway Junior Apprentice Hairdresser (or Barber) of the Year Award.

      ‘It’s totally natural,’ I said, deadpan. ‘I woke up and there it was.’

      ‘Looks good,’ said Abe.

      I went over and gave him a hug and then gave Great Aunty Rita a hug too.

      ‘How’s my favourite great-niece?’ said Great Aunty Rita – it’s what she always says. I’m her only great-niece, but it does crack her up every time she says it.

      ‘I’m good,’ I said and sat down at the table.

      Everyone tucked into the Friday night spread. I glanced over at Abe. He looked slightly bewildered by the offerings in front of him, but manfully piled his plate with pickled cabbage, pickled beetroot, tsitsaron (bits of pork), gefilte fish (fried fish balls), fried potato latkes (patties) and lumpia (fried spring rolls). I felt like offering him an indigestion tablet too. He’d suffer for it all later.

      Conversation lurched around the table – if you could call it conversation. ‘Conversation’ implies that there is a talker and a listener. But nobody in my family is a listener and everybody is a gabber. Mum talked about her clients, who were suffering from something called ‘the downturn in retail’, Billy was sick of revising for his mocks, something had happened to Uncle Zé in the Cash and Carry, and Great Aunty Rita had been knocked out of this year’s League of Ilford Jewish Women Spring Bridge Tournament. Aunt Lilah had something to contribute on just about every topic (surprise surprise). She is the original yakasaurus and loves nothing more than the sound of her own voice. She was thinking of getting a new floor put down in the bathroom.

      ‘I’d like a stripe,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘with a sort of pink fleck. Like he had on that detective programme you were watching the other night, Zé.’

      Uncle Zé said nothing.

      ‘What was it called?’

      ‘What?’ said Uncle.

      ‘That programme with the head in the bag. What was it called?’

      ‘You mean Blood Bath?’ said Uncle.

      ‘Eughh,’ said Mum. ‘Could we talk about this after tea perhaps, sis?’

      ‘No, but the flooring, Angela – it was lovely, wasn’t it, Zé?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘The flooring on that programme. Y’know, the bit where they came in and the head was in the bag . . .’

      ‘Lilah, I don’t know what you’re talking about, my love,’ said Uncle. ‘I wasn’t looking at the flooring; I was looking at the head in the bag. How come you were looking at the flooring?’

      ‘It sounds gross, Mum,’ said Billy. ‘Like Serial Killer Interiors.’

      ‘Oh, all right then,’ said Aunt Lilah. ‘Just forget it.’

      She looked crushed for a moment. Like her family didn’t appreciate her sensitivity and attention to detail or something.

      ‘How about you, Abe?’ said Mum changing the subject. ‘Did you have a good week?’

      ‘Actually I had a letter from someone,’ Abe said. He folded his serviette neatly in his lap and glanced up at me.

      ‘Oh yes?’ said Mum.

      ‘Someone who I believe is my daughter,’ said Abe. Then paused and corrected himself. ‘Someone who I believe is another daughter.’

6

       The Geek Gene

      Excellent communication skills in hairdressing (or barbering) are vital to ensure good relations with colleagues and clients. The entrant must be able to show that they are a good communicator in order to be considered for the award.

       Guideline 6: Thames Gateway Junior Apprentice Hairdresser (or Barber) of the Year Award

      There was a sort of stunned silence, during which time my heart did a tsukahara-double-twist-with-crash-landing in my chest. In case you don’t know, that’s like a really complex vault that gymnasts do in the Olympics. But this wasn’t gymnastics. This was a potential sister.

      ‘What did he say?’ boomed Great Aunty Rita after a few seconds. She’s a bit deaf and her voice has a tendency to sound a bit like the foghorn on the Woolwich ferry.

      Nobody responded. We all just sat there. I could feel my face going very hot and I wondered if I was about to pass out. After all, I – Sadie Nathanson, only child – had just found out that I might have a sister. I gripped the table, trying not to swoon into my plate of mostly pig products. I am not joking. This sometimes happens to me.

      ‘Well, my word,’ said Mum eventually. ‘That puts all our news to shame. This is huge.’

      ‘It’s big,’ said Abe.

      ‘What is?’ said Great Aunty Rita.

      ‘Abe might have another child, Rita,’ said Aunt Lilah.

      ‘Good grief,’ said Aunty Rita, ‘that was quick.’

      Nobody knew quite what to do with that comment and so we all carried on like it hadn’t happened.

      ‘It turns out that this Marie – her name’s Marie by the way,’ continued Abe. ‘Well, Marie’s dad died last year and then she found out that he wasn’t her natural father after all. Then her Mum got out all the papers with my details on it from the sperm donor website . . .’

      I was quite sure that Great Aunty Rita flinched when Abe said the words ‘sperm donor’, but maybe her hearing aid was just giving her feedback.

      ‘. . . and she’s not so far away,’ Abe continued, oblivious to Aunty Rita. ‘Canterbury, I think she said in her letter – I must have read it three times! But it’s so hard to take in . . . even after Sadie getting in touch last year!’

      ‘Well!’ said Mum, and she reached under the table and squeezed my hand. I couldn’t work out if this was meant to be a comforting gesture or if she was clinging on to me for support. She’s like that, my mum. Overemotional. Hysteria is my family’s default position.

      ‘Well, what d’you think about that, Sadie? Turns out you’ve got more family out there!’ said Mum.

      I could see tears behind her smiling eyes. Please don’t cry, I thought. And then I looked at Aunt Lilah and thought, Please don’t say anything annoying.

      ‘Sadie – what do you think?’ said Abe.

      ‘Amazing,’ I whispered, because it was truly amazing. ‘Maybe I might get to meet her one day. Did she send a photo? I mean, do you know what she looks like?’

      ‘No,’