her personality. Ding!
Goldenballs called her at about eleven, and after that it was Gary, Gary, Gary for the rest of the day (as if Lance and heartbreak had never existed). It must have been fake but it was bloody convincing.
I’m pretty fed up myself. Still haven’t heard about my NVQ. At lunchtime I asked the Feminazi if she knew what was going on and she said, “Ask the Royal Mail. I’m not a postman.”
7.30 p.m.
Bloody Nosy Knickers Nicole Walker just phoned me.
“Is it true that Lance Wilson is marrying Amy Fitzgerald?”
“Yeah… Think so,” I replied.
“How’s Malibu taking it?” she asked, dying to be filled in. “She must be gutted.”
“Can we speak later, please, Nicole?” I said. “I’m looking for a job.”
“A job? Why, what’s happened at Kara’s?”
“Nothing. Speak soon, OK?” I answered, and put the phone down. Wish I hadn’t said anything – don’t need her spreading the news before I find somewhere else to work.
8 p.m.
The only job I can find in the area is one where I’d have to rent a space from the salon owner, and then the money I make will be mine. But you need to have a good customer base before you do something like that. I haven’t even got started. So–oo annoying!
8.03 p.m.
Mum called me for dinner for the thousandth time, but I told her I wasn’t hungry. Going to stay in my room and wallow in my work depression.
8.30 p.m.
James always says that by the time he was ten, he was sure of two things: 1. He was never, ever going to fancy a girl, and 2. He wanted to be a hairdresser.
It wasn’t until I was thirteen, when Malibu would come back from work buzzing and then use me as her manicure/pedicure guinea pig (that’s all Mum would allow her to try on me), that I decided I wanted to be a beautician too. But at ten there’s one thing I was sure of: whatever I chose to do, I needed to be in charge.
I hated being bossed about by Malibu only to turn up at school and be bossed about by all the teachers as well (except Mrs Stevens – loved her English lessons). I hated all the petty rules about wearing the correct uniform and not running in the corridors (even if you were dying to go to the loo and the corridor was empty apart from you and the teacher who just happened to spot you – duh!). I couldn’t wait to grow up so I could do things MY way. And not just for the sake of it: I felt sure there was a better way to do most things – and that I could find that better way if I put my mind to it.
That colour-coded system I devised the other day was bloody genius and the only reason it wasn’t appreciated was because it’s not my salon. Well, you know what? Maybe I do need to be in charge and it’s time to get my own salon RIGHT NOW.
8.31 p.m.
Yeah, right. I can’t even understand basic business terms, how the hell am I going to run my own salon?
Can’t see me having one until I’m old and miserable like the Feminazi.
9.10 p.m.
Dad came into my room, worried about me not eating dinner. I told him I had no intention of fainting again any time soon.
“Good. Well, what’s the matter then?”
“Nothing,” I grumbled.
“Of course there bloody well is – look at the face on you! What is it?”
I sighed. “I think I’ve got a problem with authority.”
Dad laughed. “Don’t be daft,” he said. “Is it Kara again?”
I nodded and told him I blooming well hate my job, giving him the prime opportunity to start on about how I should have stayed on at school. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “Remy, I’ve seen the attention you put into doing your friends’ nails when they come over here. You love making people look good.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be doing it for the rest of my life,” I told him.
Dad looked confused. “Please don’t tell me you left school for nothing,” he said – just as I expected. Only he didn’t sound angry – I could have handled that. It was the disappointment in his voice that I couldn’t stand.
Goldenballs called her at about eleven, and after that it was Gary, Gary, Gary for the rest of the day (as if Lance and heartbreak had never existed). It must have been fake but it was bloody convincing.
I’m pretty fed up myself. Still haven’t heard about my NVQ. At lunchtime I asked the Feminazi if she knew what was going on and she said, “Ask the Royal Mail. I’m not a postman.”
7.30 p.m.
Bloody Nosy Knickers Nicole Walker just phoned me.
“Is it true that Lance Wilson is marrying Amy Fitzgerald?”
“Yeah… Think so,” I replied.
“How’s Malibu taking it?” she asked, dying to be filled in. “She must be gutted.”
“Can we speak later, please, Nicole?” I said. “I’m looking for a job.”
“A job? Why, what’s happened at Kara’s?”
“Nothing. Speak soon, OK?” I answered, and put the phone down. Wish I hadn’t said anything – don’t need her spreading the news before I find somewhere else to work.
8 p.m.
The only job I can find in the area is one where I’d have to rent a space from the salon owner, and then the money I make will be mine. But you need to have a good customer base before you do something like that. I haven’t even got started. So–oo annoying!
8.03 p.m.
Mum called me for dinner for the thousandth time, but I told her I wasn’t hungry. Going to stay in my room and wallow in my work depression.
8.30 p.m.
James always says that by the time he was ten, he was sure of two things: 1. He was never, ever going to fancy a girl, and 2. He wanted to be a hairdresser.
It wasn’t until I was thirteen, when Malibu would come back from work buzzing and then use me as her manicure/pedicure guinea pig (that’s all Mum would allow her to try on me), that I decided I wanted to be a beautician too. But at ten there’s one thing I was sure of: whatever I chose to do, I needed to be in charge.
I hated being bossed about by Malibu only to turn up at school and be bossed about by all the teachers as well (except Mrs Stevens – loved her English lessons). I hated all the petty rules about wearing the correct uniform and not running in the corridors (even if you were dying to go to the loo and the corridor was empty apart from you and the teacher who just happened to spot you – duh!). I couldn’t wait to grow up so I could do things MY way. And not just for the sake of it: I felt sure there was a better way to do most things – and that I could find that better way if I put my mind to it.
That colour-coded system I devised the other day was bloody genius and the only reason it wasn’t appreciated was because it’s not my salon. Well, you know what? Maybe I do need to be in charge and it’s time to get my own salon RIGHT NOW.
8.31 p.m.
Yeah, right. I can’t even understand basic business terms, how the hell am I going to run my own salon?
Can’t see me having one until I’m old and miserable like the Feminazi.
9.10 p.m.
Dad came into my room, worried about me not eating dinner. I told him I had no intention of fainting again any time soon.
“Good. Well, what’s the matter then?”
“Nothing,” I grumbled.
“Of course there bloody well is – look at the face on you! What is it?”
I sighed. “I think I’ve got a problem with authority.”
Dad laughed. “Don’t be daft,” he said. “Is it Kara again?”
I nodded and told him I blooming well hate my job, giving him the prime opportunity to start on about how I should have stayed on at school. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “Remy, I’ve seen the attention you put into doing your friends’ nails when they come over here. You love making people look good.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be doing it for the rest of my life,” I told him.
Dad looked confused. “Please don’t tell me you left school for nothing,” he said – just as I expected. Only he didn’t sound angry – I could have handled that. It was the disappointment in his voice that I couldn’t stand.
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