Iggy and Me

Iggy’s hair (#ulink_d86453f1-bff9-5190-b643-95a80fe72a0e)

Iggy and me started off with exactly the same hair. Mum says when I was born I had hair like fluff, all soft and sort of see-through.

“You mean bald,” Dad says.

“No,” Mum says, “It was lovely.”

Then it grew and grew, and when I was the age that Iggy is now, it was long and fine and blonde. “Never,” says Dad, but it’s true. I’ve seen the pictures.

When Iggy was born, she had see-through fluff too. Then she grew and her hair grew too, long and fine and blonde. My hair isn’t long and fine and blonde any more. My hair is shorter and darker and nothing-er than Iggy’s. And my fringe gets in my eyes and it’s itchy. So I trimmed it.

I did a really good job. I did it with the kitchen scissors, and I put all the hair in my bin and I put the scissors on my bedside table.

When I went down to the kitchen, Dad didn’t even notice. I had to tell him.

“Do you notice anything different about me?” I said.

Dad said, “You’re fluent in Japanese.”

“No.”

“You’ve turned into a sausage dog.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You’re a fully-trained astronaut.”

“No, Dad. I’ve cut my hair.”

Dad was pouring coffee and he stopped moving. Iggy was picking her nose and she stopped moving.

“Where?’ Dad said.

And Iggy said, “On her head, silly.”

“I can’t see it,” he said.

“Well, I have,” I said.

Just then, Mum came down from my room with a handful of my hair. She had found it in the bin. “Have you cut your hair?” she said, and she sounded cross. I suddenly sort of wished I hadn’t.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, you shouldn’t,” Mum said in a louder voice than normal. “It’s not allowed.”

Iggy said, “How did you know she did it, Mum? Me and Dad didn’t notice.”

“I noticed because she left the evidence in her room,” Mum said, and showed her the hair from my bin. It was all fluffy and dry in her hands. It didn’t look much like my hair at all, more like a guinea pig’s really.

“Oh,” Iggy said. “Evidence.”

“Still,” Dad said to me, “you did a pretty good job.”

“Don’t do it again,” Mum said, and she glared at him and then at me.

So I didn’t.

But Iggy did.

She found the scissors by my bed. And because she could make snowflakes out of folded bits of old magazine, she thought she could do anything with scissors.

Mum and Dad said it was my fault what happened, and that I shouldn’t cut my own fringe, even just a little bit, and I also shouldn’t leave scissors lying around in places where Iggies can find them.

I say when you’re Iggy’s big sister everything is your fault, even breathing, because even breathing makes Iggy think of something naughty she could do.

It was after lunch and I was doing times tables in my room. I don’t like times tables and because I don’t like them I have to do them more than someone who does, which doesn’t make any sense to me. I have to say them out loud to myself and throw a ball and catch it while I’m saying them. I feel silly doing that all alone in my room, but Mum and Dad say I have to and they test me afterwards, on my tables and on my catching, so I can’t really cheat.

Dad was cutting the grass outside and Mum was working in her room with the sign on the door that says, Be Quiet Your Mother is Thinking. Maybe if the lawnmower hadn’t been on one of us would have noticed how quiet Iggy was being, because Iggy is not normally quiet. As soon as she stops filling the house with noise, you can almost guarantee she is up to no good.

So when Dad finished and I couldn’t hear the mower any more, I couldn’t hear Iggy either and I knew there was going to be trouble. Maybe Mum couldn’t hear her at the same time because she opened her door and said, “Iggy? Where are you?”

And Dad came in from outside and said, “It’s a bit quiet in here.”

When Iggy came out of her room she acted like nothing had happened. She came past my door, quieter than normal, and I stopped throwing the ball and trying to remember what seven times four was before I caught it.

“Iggy,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Walking,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I mean what have you been doing?”

“Nothing,” she said, in her lying voice, which is very easy to recognise because it’s not her real voice at all. It’s what she thinks people who are telling the truth sound like.

“Come here,” I said, and she turned back and put her head in the room.

Her head with practically no hair on it.

“Iggy!” I said. “What have you done?”

“I’ve cut my hair,” she said, smiling.

I put my hand over my mouth like a shocked person on the telly and I said, “Mum and Dad are going to kill you!”

“They’re not allowed,” Iggy said.

“You can’t stick hair back on, you know,” I said.

“I know. I don’t want to.”