Nathalia Buttface and the Most Embarrassing Five Minutes of Fame Ever
- -
- 100%
- +
In the shopping centre, Nat pulled the strings on her hoodie’s hood so tight around her face that she kept bumping into things. They went to their favourite caff and the only thing she would have was a milkshake, which she could drink by poking a straw through the tiny hole in her hood.
It was miserable, trying to avoid being laughed at. Mum kept reassuring her that people would forget about the video and move on to the next funny thing.
But as days went by, Nat’s angry outburst got more and more popular, and more and more shared. Like a snowball rolling down a massive mountain, gathering millions of snowflakes and turning into a horrible avalanche of frosty doom, EVERYONE was finding the clip hilarious and passing it on to their friends.
Perhaps it was Nat’s face, her wild flying hair, her little wiggly dance of outrage, her hoppy, bum-slapping dance, but something made people love it. And worst of all, she had come up with a phrase that people just liked using.
On Monday she heard the window cleaner over the road shout to his lad with the bucket: “Stop whistling. People are watching. Can’t you be normal?”
On Tuesday, Nat heard annoying local morning radio DJ Cabbage burble: “We’ve got a caller who says she’s just seen Prince Charles doing a hot wash down the launderette. All I can say to her is: ‘Doris, can’t you be normal?’”
On Wednesday Nat saw a comedian on the telly make fun of someone in the audience who was wearing an unfortunate pink tank top. “Why did you put that on?” he mocked. “People are watching …” The audience had started laughing even before he finished with …
“… Can’t you be normal?”
Nat immediately turned over to watch a documentary about a lost tribe in the Amazon. But even then she was half expecting one of the tribe to interrupt a war dance with: “Stop that, Dave, there’s a film crew. People are watching. Can’t you be normal?”
On Thursday, chat show host Dilbert Starburst said it about ten times all through his show and it got bigger laughs every flipping time.
And finally on Friday even the Prime Minister joined in the fun. He was teasing a politician from a foreign country at a big meeting. “Calm down, dear,” he said, in his usual smug voice, “people are watching. Can’t you be NORMAL?”
“Of course she can’t be normal,” muttered one of the Prime Minister’s crawly bum-lick friends, “she’s from Belgium.”
Oh great, so I can never go to Belgium now, thought Nat, watching the news. I bet the whole country will blame me for that comment.
Naturally Nat made Dad suffer for his online crimes. She couldn’t decide between shouting at him continually or refusing to talk to him, so she opted for a mixture of both, depending on whether she wanted him to make her a bacon sandwich, for example.
“Come on, love, you know I hate it when you’re cross with me,” he said on Saturday lunchtime as she tucked into one of his big, greasy, delicious bacon sandwiches.
“Which is odd, because you make her cross a lot,” said Mum, who had been NO HELP TO DAD all week.
“Well, you can stop being cross because I’ve found out how to make it all better,” said Dad, looking quite pleased with himself.
“You CAN’T make it better,” said Nat, who was actually starting to feel less cross with him and more sorry for herself. Besides, she had to admit Dad did make excellent bacon sandwiches. “It’s not a grazed knee that you can kiss better and put a plaster on.”
She was only using that as an example, but Dad suddenly looked guilty. “I’ve apologised for getting you stuck in that babies’ swing a thousand times,” he said, remembering a time when she had grazed her knee. “I thought you were too little for the big swings.”
“I haven’t heard this story,” said Mum quietly.
“Now be fair, Nat,” said Dad, very very quickly, “you only grazed your knee when the fireman who cut you out of the swing dropped you on the gravel. Technically that wasn’t my fault.”
He jumped up out of arm’s reach and plopped more bacon in the pan. Then he said, “Now who wants to hear about the brilliant thing Dad’s just done?”
“There is NOTHING you can say to make this situation better,” said Nat firmly, “except that we’re emigrating. At the very least I’ll have to change schools. Everyone used to make fun of me – mostly thanks to you, Dad – and it’s taken me ages to go from being laughed at to just being ignored. I was hoping this might 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.
“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 hadn’t been able to get hold of Darius for a week now. He didn’t have a mobile, or a landline, because the phone company were too scared of his horrible brother, Oswald Bagley, to come round and put one in.
“Stay right there, Bagley, you little worm,” shouted Nat, just as the bus pulled up at the stop.
Darius barged to the front of the queue and had almost made it through the door when Nat grabbed his frayed collar and dragged him away. His face was dirty, his hair cropped short and in tufts. He was wearing an old shirt three sizes too big for him and he had a baked bean in his ear.
“Where are you going, looking so smart?” she said. She wasn’t being sarcastic – he WAS looking smart. For Darius, that is.
“Let me get on the bus, I’ll be late for my job,” said Darius, wriggling.
“You’ve got a lot to answer for,” said Nat. “Why did you give Dad that video?”
The last few passengers were getting on as Darius wriggled and squirmed to get away.
“People are watching,” said Darius loudly. “Can’t you be normal?”
Everyone in the street stopped and looked at Nat.
“It’s her,” shouted one man. “It’s really her!”
“Can’t you be normal?” yelled a woman with a baby buggy. “Ha ha ha!”
“People are watching NOW,” shrieked a young shoplifter, who was running past with a toaster under one arm, closely followed by a security guard. The guard slowed down in front of Nat.
“Hey, it’s you! Do the dance!” he said.
“Eeek,” said Nat, dropping Darius and running back inside the salon. Darius grinned and hopped on the Number 3 bus just as the doors closed.
“Dad, I don’t think I want to do this,” said Nat, panting, once she was safely back inside the salon.
“Too late!” said Irene Hideous, waving the contract. “It’s all signed, sealed and paid for. Now don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.”
… screamed the poster in the hair salon.
“So, we want pictures of you every day for ten days,” explained Mrs Hideous. “Every morning you’ll be given a free new hairstyle by our top stylist Suki Glossop. Won’t that be exciting?” She was using the sort of pretend-nice voice that mums use when they’re trying to get kids to take medicine and the poorly child has already spat it out twice.
“I dunno,” said Nat, still shaken from her brush with fame outside.
“Come on – people are going to look at you anyway,” said Dad. “At least this way you’ll get something out of it.”
Yes, and I should be used to being stared at by now, being in your stupid company, Nat thought to herself glumly.
Top stylist Suki Glossop, a young woman with half her head shaved, a collection of piercings and a big tattoo of a dragon up her arm, started fluffing up Nat’s hair.
“Get off,” said Nat.
“Can you do something with it?” asked Mrs Hideous.
“You’re not giving me quality materials to work with,” Suki said, sounding very bored.
“Hey,” said Nat, “that’s me you’re talking about. I AM quality materials, thank you very much.”
“Just do what you can, OK?” said Mrs Hideous to Suki Glossop. “You’ve got Elsie Stain booked in for a shampoo and set at eleven and you know how she gets if we’re not ready. Especially if she’s started on the sherry early.”
“I thought modelling was supposed to be glamorous, Dad,” hissed Nat as Suki started preparing her scissors and brushes. “This place is horrible. It smells of burned hair and cats and it’s full of mad old people.”
“That’s why they need you, love,” explained Dad. “You’re their bit of glamour. You should be flattered.”
Nathalia didn’t feel very glamorous when her head was shoved in the sink and red-hot water sprayed all over it.
“Ow ow ow!” gasped Nat as her head boiled.
“It needs a hot wash to get the muck out,” said Suki, scrubbing shampoo into Nat’s tender scalp.
“There’s no muck IN,” said Nat, offended.
“Sorry, she doesn’t wash her hair very much,” said Dad. “I’d offer to do it for her, but she says she’s too old these days. But this is the result – manky hair.”
“I have NOT got manky hair!” bubbled Nat from the sink, mouth full of shampoo. Her whole head was a big afro of foam. “Shut up, Dad.”
Eventually her hair was de-mucked enough for Suki to begin drying, which she insisted on doing with a rough towel, by hand, very hard.
“You’re very lucky,” said Suki, with a pout. “I wanted to be the hair model, but apparently I’m not as famous as you.”
“You’re pulling,” complained Nat, buried under the scratchy towel. “Ouchy!”
“I can’t put you under the dryer – you’ve got such weak roots they’ll just frazzle to a crisp,” said Suki.
“Hear that, Dad?” said Nat. “Weak roots. I know where I get those from.” Dad put his hand up to his thinning thatch.
“Does she always complain this much?” asked Mrs Hideous, coming over with a tub of the gloopy gel.
“She’s not TOO bad,” said Dad, who liked talking about Nat to people when she was sitting right next to him. “Although she moaned and moaned when I wouldn’t let her have her ears pierced.”
“What’s wrong with getting your ears pierced?” said Suki, rubbing Nat’s head even harder. Shuddup, Dad, thought Nat. Can’t you see this woman’s got twelve earrings in each ear??? Not to mention the one in her nose. Or eyebrow. In fact, she’s got more piercings than FACE.
“Nothing WRONG with them,” said Dad. “It’s just that children look horrible with earrings. Also, it hurts them. Parents who give their kids earrings should be arrested.”
“My little Trayvon and D’Shaun have BOTH got earrings,” growled Suki. “And they’ve had them since they were two years old.” Nat’s head was getting squashed.
“That’s nice,” said Dad. “Um – is her hair dry now?”
Suki whipped off the towel, grabbed a massive handful of the gel and slapped it on Nat’s head with a splat. Nat could feel it trickling down her neck.
“That’s rather a lot,” said Mrs Hideous, but then she saw the dark expression on Suki’s face and slid off out of the way.
“I think something EXTREME to start,” said Suki. “Unless Daddy’s little girl can’t handle it?”
Nat had had enough of Suki flipping Glossop. Dad might be embarrassing, but this girl was unpleasant and rude. And she was NOT going to let her think she was some silly kid.
Suki began to style. She yanked and pulled and twisted her hair, but Nat wouldn’t let on that it hurt. She was a very determined girl and shut her eyes tight and didn’t utter a squeak until she heard:
“Finished. Waddya think?”
She opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t complain NO MATTER HOW HORRIBLE it was.
But it wasn’t horrible.
It was wild, it was wacky.
But it was WONDERFUL.
Her new crazy hairstyle was huge and daring and exciting and Nat thought it made her look five years older at least.
It was swept back and up and over and out and high. It made Nat’s thin, straight hair look full and curly and spiky and super-glamorous. It was the sort of hairstyle that only miserable-looking models on the front of proper posh magazines have.
Nat posed in front of the mirror, not believing her eyes, ducking down and turning this way and that to see the whole, massive creation.
She LOVED it.
“It’s terrible,” said Dad.
“It’s – flipping – brilliant,” said Nat.
“Told you I was good,” said Suki, grinning smugly.
Oh my gosh, this is the kind of hairstyle that the cool kids at school will want but their parents won’t let them have, thought Nat. Which means that finally, after all this time, I’m actually one of the cool kids.
“I don’t like it,” said Dad.
“Too bad,” sniffed Mrs Hideous. “She has to wear it like that all day, along with a T-shirt advertising the salon.”
She handed Nat a cheap-looking bright red T-shirt with THE FINAL CUT printed on it.
“She can’t go out in public like that,” said Dad.
“She can and she will. It’s in the contract,” said Mrs Hideous. “Just above where you signed.”
“I can’t read that, I left my glasses in the van,” admitted Dad.
“Then why did you sign it?” asked Nat.
“Don’t interfere,” said Dad. “I’m talking business – you won’t understand.”
“You might have signed me up for anything,” wailed Nat. “You could have signed me up for the army, or for scientific experiments. You are rubbish.”
“That’s not fair,” said Dad, feeling a bit harassed. “You just said you liked the hair.”
“Not the point.” Nat looked at herself in the mirror. It was true though; she DID like it, so she couldn’t be annoyed at Dad for too long.
“Who’s doing the photographs?” asked Dad. “Is it one of those paparazzi who take pictures of all the stars?”
“We don’t believe in paying photographers,” said Mrs Hideous. “It says in the contract you’ll take the pictures. It makes it more natural.”
It makes it more cheap, you mean, thought Nat, who was feeling less and less like a celebrity by the second.
“I’ve always fancied myself as a celebrity snapper,” said Dad. “I once took a photo of Nat that made it into the local paper. She won a beautiful toddler contest.”
“For BOYS,” said Nat. “Remember? It was a beautiful boy contest.”
“Yeah, but you still won,” said Dad. “You got that scooter.”
“You said that was from Santa!” said Nat, remembering the scooter. “You massive cheapskate.”
“Now off you go,” said Mrs Hideous, who wanted Dad out of her salon as quickly as possible. “Try and take the picture somewhere pretty.”
“Round here?” said Dad, laughing. “Not likely – this is the most horrible street in town.”
“I live above the salon,” said Mrs Hideous, hands on hips.
“And I live next door, above the launderette,” said Suki.
“We’re leaving now, bye!” said Nat quickly, dragging Dad outside by the hand.
“Be careful with the hair,” shouted Suki, just as a massive lorry thundered past. “Don’t let it get wet.”
“What did she say?” asked Nat as they walked back to the Atomic Dustbin. People were staring at her again, but this time she didn’t mind; she knew they were only staring at her AMAZING HAIR. She felt like a film star.
“Dunno, there was too much traffic and I couldn’t hear properly. Something about keeping it wet? Probably helps the shine.”
“Righty ho,” said Nat, skipping along and not paying attention, but checking out her awesome reflection in every shop window. A number 3 bus trundled by.
“Oooh, Dad,” she said, reminded of her little monster of a mate. “Can we go and show Darius?”
“No problem. I’ll just pop in the mini market for a bottle of water for your hair. I don’t want those ladies to think I get EVERYTHING wrong.”
“I’ve got to show Darius,” she said, forgetting momentarily that she was angry with him. “If we follow the bus route, we might spot him.”
“Hmm,” said Dad, pulling into traffic. “Unlikely, and I hadn’t planned on spending my Saturday hunting down Darius Bagley.”
“He said something about a job,” said Nat, “but that can’t be right.”
“Oh, in that case I might know what he’s doing,” said Dad, in a strained tone of voice Nat recognised as DAD THINKING.
“No one would give Darius a job,” said Nat. “They might pay him NOT to work for them.”
Dad pulled over in a space that said TAXIS ONLY. He was concentrating. “Lemme think. I was talking to Dolores – that’s Miss Hunny to you – the other day,” he began.
“I wish you’d stop talking to my form teacher. It’s really embarrassing.”
“You know we were at college together,” said Dad. “When we were young and silly. Oh I could tell you stories …”
“Please, please don’t, I’m begging you and I’m not even joking,” said Nat, putting her fingers in her ears.