Give My Daughter Back Her Hair!

Milly spends the morning telling me how depressing the concept of the National Lottery is and I have to agree. Of course, she’s been bought a house by her parents in the last year, so we’re coming at this from different angles. Still, the idea of millions of desperate people funding a cash prize they’ll never win is hardly inspirational.

Playing the lottery is what people do instead of changing their life, she tells me, buttoning up her pinstriped jacket. They put things on hold, just waiting for that win. It gives them an excuse not to do anything.
She collects her sushi pack from the fridge and slips it into her bag before rushing out the door.
I pick at a hole in my pyjama bottoms.

On the telly, a couple with bad teeth grin at Lorraine Kelly. They’ve won a competition called Give My Daughter Back Her Hair! and are being flown out to New York to get a luxurious custom made wig fitted.
The camera zooms into the face of a bald headed girl called Jade smiling weakly and I wonder if she’s really going to make it through the flight.

Cut to a montage: bald Britney followed by Britney with rich brown hair, Beyonce flicking her long blonde hair on a stage.
Next a small, fat woman with ridiculous hair extensions and a southern drawl lists people she’s made hair pieces for.
Beyonce, Mariah Carey, Joss Stone…

I imagine Jade coming out of this exclusive wig shop in New York. Long, shiny locks of bright red hair cascading down her back. Way too much hair for an eight year old head, but smiling anyway, mainly for her dad who chose the colour, but also for anyone who might be watching back home.

She’d go into school the Monday after, all tired and frail, but happy. Expectant. This was the start of her New Life.

The teachers would have to send her home by first break. And her dad would try to give her a smile as he took the wig off her. Would tell her Never mind as he held the red hairpiece over the kitchen sink, using his fingers to pull out the larger pieces of egg shell.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps Jade’s school friends would be lovely and supportive, crowding round admiringly to touch the wig, gasping that It looks so real, without a hint of sarcasm. Maybe they’d say nice things behind her back, like, Isn't she brave? and Aren’t her parents wonderful?

But there's no going back. I’ve already imagined the egg scene and now poor Jade’s crying underneath her duvet, her damp wig's drying out on the radiator and I’m certain I can smell raw egg.

I turn the telly off and lie down, face the back of the sofa.

* *

The front door clicks open and I sit up quickly. Milly sweeps in the way she always does. She swings her pinstriped jacket over the back of a chair, rests her handbag on the seat and goes straight to the kettle.

Busy day? she asks, and I can’t quite tell if she’s taking the piss.
Fairly. I say, seriously. I submitted a few poems, subscribed to a journal.
Don’t forget it’s rent day tomorrow.
I nod my head casually, like it’s no big deal.

She hands me a black coffee and sits down.
I might just go and get some milk actually, I tell her.
Milly frowns at me. You never normally have milk, or I’d have put some in...
But I’m already up, looking for my keys and wallet.

As I get to the front door, I’m already weighing up the different odds between my own selection and a lucky dip.

I think about Jade’s parents rushing out from wherever they are to do the same thing. I wonder if Mum’s playing this week or if she’s forgotten it’s a Wednesday. I imagine us all united in hope as we buy our tickets from corner shops around the nation.

I pick up a Bourneville, thinking maybe that would make Milly more forgiving when I tell her I haven’t got my rent money together yet. But there’s only two pounds seven and she’d much rather just have the rent.

One Lucky Dip and one of these please. I say, passing Mr Sandhu my personalised numbers. I imagine Jade's parents in Scunthorpe or Bognor Regis, or wherever they come from, doing the same.

This one’s for you Jade, I think, handing my last two pounds over meaningfully.

* *

Later on, when my hope is diminished I laugh at myself for doing that. For pretending to raise a toast to a child I don’t even know, when really I was just buying myself another lottery ticket.

* *

The next morning, White Chimney magazine send me an email accepting my poem, Girdle Series, and promise to send me three copies of the magazine as payment.

I smile, gleefully, then navigate to Natwest to see if they’ll change their mind about giving me a loan.