I normally combed out my hair straight away, so I had not appreciated what half an hour or so of neglect could achieve. My hair had become a tangle of half-dried frizz, kinked in the places where it had been folded under the towel, as effectively as if I’d used curl papers. The only thing for it was to wet it thoroughly again. I was about to fill the wash basin, when I heard Simon bawling my name from downstairs. ‘I’m up here,’ I shouted, advancing to the top of the stairs. ‘I’ve got to wash my hair again.’ ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Simon yelled. ‘You wanted to go to Kington – we’re going now.’ ‘I can’t,’ I protested. ‘Look at my hair.’ Simon was standing in the hall with Danny just behind him. Both appeared to be on the edge of losing their tempers. ‘Can’t you wait a minute or two, while I at least wet it? Just look at it.’ ‘No,’ said Simon. ‘Come on. If we’re going, we go now.’ I considered ignoring him – but something in his face told me not to push it.
