The Evil Hairdo by Oisin McGann Page A

This is really important!’
    â€˜So is this. I’m into the semi-finals!’ he yelled back. Wayne was no good at real football, but he was the top goal scorer in our school on a games console.
    I put my hands on my hips and waited for him to finish the match, then I hit ‘pause’ on the console.
    â€˜Hey!’ he scowled.
    â€˜Please, Wayne. Please, please lend me some money. I’ll give it back in, like, a week, I promise.’

    â€˜So, why not just wait a week, and get it then?’ he asked.
    â€˜Don’t talk to me like you’re Dad – you’re not Dad. Please lend me the money. I’ll do anything.’ I bit my lip as soon as I said that. It was a dumb thing for any girl to say to her little brother.
    Wayne grinned his nasty grin.
    â€˜Anything?’
    â€˜Well, it depends.’
    â€˜That’s not anything then, is it?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s just something .’
    â€˜Ohhh … all right then, anything.’ I clenched my fists. ‘Please will you lend me fifteen euros?’
    â€˜Okay,’ he grinned again. ‘But you have to helpme start up Dad’s motorbike.’
    I knew he was going to say that. Dad had a big, old motorbike – really old, like nearly twenty years or something – which he hardly rode at all. He used it to spend Sunday afternoons out in the back garden getting his hands dirty, fixing something that wasn’t broken. Or some of his friends would come around, and they’d all stand beside their oily old bikes, talking about them. They were just like boys , but older and fatter. A motorbike would have made most men a little bit cool at least, but not our dad. And however uncool Dad might be, Wayne was worse. There was no hope for him. He was just so embarrassing.

    But Wayne had always wanted a go on the motorbike andDad would never let him, so now he wanted me to help him get it started. Dad would kill us if he caught us – but I said yes.
    You’d be amazed what I’d do for the right hair.
    Wayne got his football-shaped piggy bank down from the top of his television and opened it up. I couldn’t believe how much he had. It must have been nearly sixty euros in coins. He handed me the fifteen euro coins and put the rest back.
    â€˜We start tomorrow at oh-nine hundred,’ he said.

    â€˜What do you mean?’ I asked him.
    â€˜Nine o’clock,’ he groaned, rolling his eyes back.
    â€˜Then why didn’t you just say so, instead of trying to sound like an astronaut!’
    â€˜Just don’t be late.’
    I took the money and charged down the stairs.
    â€˜Don’t run on the stairs!’ Mum called from the sitting room. ‘You’ll fall and break your neck!’
    â€˜I’m going out!’ I shouted back.
    â€˜Where? When will you be back? I’m making lunch for half one.’
    She came to the door of the sitting room.
    â€˜I’ll be back then,’ I promised.

2
I Should Be On MTV Or Something
    C lutching the money, I ran down the street and across the main road to the new salon. I took a long, long look at the poster in the window, buzzing with excitement, and then I pushed the door open.

    The place was like something out of Mum’s magazines. It wasn’t that big, but it was really stylish, with huge mirrors, and everything was in wood and metal and curved plastic. There was one chair, which looked like it belonged on television. It had black leather and steel handles for raising and lowering and turning it. There were bottles of WitchCraft shampoo and conditioner and other stuff laid neatly on shelves. And in frames on the walls there were posters of the girls from the band, looking like goddesses in the hippest gear. 
    ‘What a beautiful little girl!’ a voice purred, making me look towards the back of the shop.
    There by a door stood a woman who seemed made of wood and plastic and leather herself. She was