Матильда

           Thefatherwasjustmovingroundtositattheheadofthetablewhenthemothercamesweepingoutfromthekitchencarryingahugeplatepiledhighwitheggsandsausagesandbaconandtomatoes.Shelookedup.Shecaughtsightofherhusband.Shestoppeddead.Thensheletoutascreamthatseemedtoliftherrightupintotheairandshedroppedtheplatewithacrashandasplashontothefloor.Everyonejumped,includingMr.Wormwood.

           "Whattheheck’sthematterwithyou,woman?"heshouted.

           "Lookatthemessyou’vemadeonthecarpet!"

           "Yourhair!"themotherwasshrieking,pointingaquiveringfingeratherhusband."Lookatyourhair!What’veyoudonetoyourhair?"

           "What’swrongwithmyhairforheaven’ssake?"hesaid."Ohmygawddad,what’veyoudonetoyourhair?"thesonshouted.

           Asplendidnoisyscenewasbuildingupnicelyinthebreakfastroom.

           Matildasaidnothing.Shesimplysatthereadmiringthewonderfuleffectofherownhandiwork.Mr.Wormwood’sfinecropofblackhairwasnowadirtysilver,thecolourthistimeofatightrope-walker’stightsthathadnotbeenwashedfortheentirecircusseason.

           "You’ve...you’ve...you’vedyedit!"shriekedthemother."Whydidyoudoit,youfool!Itlooksabsolutelyfrightful!Itlookshorrendous!Youlooklikeafreak!"

           "Whattheblazesareyoualltalkingabout?"thefatheryelled,puttingbothhandstohishair.