found my face had gone all bloated and ugly, I mean like REALLY ugly, like totally grotesque. Like something out of a nightmare. I nearly died. I am not exaggerating! I couldn’t bear to look at myself. It was so bad I had to miss out on the fundraiser. I am just totally GUTTED. I’d been looking forward to it for such ages! Why did it have to happen NOW???
I am living in terror in case it happens again. What is so frightening is that I don’t know why it happened in the first place. Mum says it’s an allergy, but to what? SHE says to make-up, but I haven’tused any make-up. Not for days! Mum only says that cos it’s the easiest thing to pick on. It’s all part of having a go at me. Part of her “you’re too obsessed with the way you look” thing.
But I am not obsessed! It’s perfectly normal for someone to care about the way they look. Mum might have got old and past it, but I am still young, and I think she should remember that.
My next diary entry was the last one I made for a while. All it said was,
If this goes on, then there will be no point in living. I might as well kill myself.
I don’t think I really, seriously meant it – although maybe I did, which is rather frightening. But it truly was like the end of the world. How could I ever face anyone again?
How it started: I’d gone to bed on Friday evening feeling all happy and buzzy. I’d washed my hair ready for the beauty contest, and I’d cleaned my face
so
carefully, doing all the right things, like they tell you in the magazines; and then when I woke up on Saturdaymorning … I couldn’t believe it! I looked in the mirror and I just nearly died.
My eyes were all swollen like footballs.
I let out this piercing screech and went hurtling down the stairs shrieking,
“Mu-u-u-m!”
Mum shot out of the kitchen going, “What is it? What is it?”
“My eyes!” I bawled. “Look at my eyes!”
Mum looked. “Oh, dear, yes, they are a bit puffy, aren’t they?” she said.
A
bit
??? Dad came rushing in at that point, wanting to know what all the noise was about.
“It’s all right,” said Mum. “Just a minor crisis.”
By now I was practically in hysterics. I screamed at Mum that it wasn’t minor. “I’m supposed to be going in for a beauty contest! How can I even
show
myself?”
Dad took a look and said, “She’s right, she can’t go in for any beauty contest in that state.”
Dad’s reaction only made me even more hysterical. Mum told me to calm down.
“It’s nowhere near as bad as you make out. Eat your breakfast, then go upstairs and lie down for an hour and you’ll probably find you’re back to normal.”
“But what can be causing it?” said Dad.
“Anything,” said Mum. “She’s obviously like me; she’s got sensitive skin.” Mum said it was the price we paid for being redheads. She tried to make me eat something but I couldn’t; I just wanted to get upstairs, in a darkened room, and go to sleep, so that I could wake up and be my usual self. Mum gave me some cotton wool pads soaked in witch hazel to put on my eyes. I wanted to use a proper soothing lotion, but Mum told me sharply to “Forget all that proprietary stuff! It’s just junk. Witch hazel’s far better for you. Now lie down and try to relax.”
I did try, but it wasn’t easy. Every few minutes I kept touching at my eyes, checking whether they were still puffy and then getting in a panic cos I’d think they were getting worse, which meant grabbing a mirror and switching on the bedside lamp to inspect myself.Mum came in at half-past eleven and said, “Well, how’s it going? Let me have a look … oh, that’s much better! It hardly even notices.”
But it still
did
notice. I sobbed that I couldn’t go in for a beauty contest with eyes that were all wrinkled and red. Dad agreed with me. I pleaded with Mum to ring Hattie and tell her I’d got the flu. Mum said, “Oh, now, come on, Scarlett! That’s a bit over the top. You can still go, just
I am living in terror in case it happens again. What is so frightening is that I don’t know why it happened in the first place. Mum says it’s an allergy, but to what? SHE says to make-up, but I haven’tused any make-up. Not for days! Mum only says that cos it’s the easiest thing to pick on. It’s all part of having a go at me. Part of her “you’re too obsessed with the way you look” thing.
But I am not obsessed! It’s perfectly normal for someone to care about the way they look. Mum might have got old and past it, but I am still young, and I think she should remember that.
My next diary entry was the last one I made for a while. All it said was,
If this goes on, then there will be no point in living. I might as well kill myself.
I don’t think I really, seriously meant it – although maybe I did, which is rather frightening. But it truly was like the end of the world. How could I ever face anyone again?
How it started: I’d gone to bed on Friday evening feeling all happy and buzzy. I’d washed my hair ready for the beauty contest, and I’d cleaned my face
so
carefully, doing all the right things, like they tell you in the magazines; and then when I woke up on Saturdaymorning … I couldn’t believe it! I looked in the mirror and I just nearly died.
My eyes were all swollen like footballs.
I let out this piercing screech and went hurtling down the stairs shrieking,
“Mu-u-u-m!”
Mum shot out of the kitchen going, “What is it? What is it?”
“My eyes!” I bawled. “Look at my eyes!”
Mum looked. “Oh, dear, yes, they are a bit puffy, aren’t they?” she said.
A
bit
??? Dad came rushing in at that point, wanting to know what all the noise was about.
“It’s all right,” said Mum. “Just a minor crisis.”
By now I was practically in hysterics. I screamed at Mum that it wasn’t minor. “I’m supposed to be going in for a beauty contest! How can I even
show
myself?”
Dad took a look and said, “She’s right, she can’t go in for any beauty contest in that state.”
Dad’s reaction only made me even more hysterical. Mum told me to calm down.
“It’s nowhere near as bad as you make out. Eat your breakfast, then go upstairs and lie down for an hour and you’ll probably find you’re back to normal.”
“But what can be causing it?” said Dad.
“Anything,” said Mum. “She’s obviously like me; she’s got sensitive skin.” Mum said it was the price we paid for being redheads. She tried to make me eat something but I couldn’t; I just wanted to get upstairs, in a darkened room, and go to sleep, so that I could wake up and be my usual self. Mum gave me some cotton wool pads soaked in witch hazel to put on my eyes. I wanted to use a proper soothing lotion, but Mum told me sharply to “Forget all that proprietary stuff! It’s just junk. Witch hazel’s far better for you. Now lie down and try to relax.”
I did try, but it wasn’t easy. Every few minutes I kept touching at my eyes, checking whether they were still puffy and then getting in a panic cos I’d think they were getting worse, which meant grabbing a mirror and switching on the bedside lamp to inspect myself.Mum came in at half-past eleven and said, “Well, how’s it going? Let me have a look … oh, that’s much better! It hardly even notices.”
But it still
did
notice. I sobbed that I couldn’t go in for a beauty contest with eyes that were all wrinkled and red. Dad agreed with me. I pleaded with Mum to ring Hattie and tell her I’d got the flu. Mum said, “Oh, now, come on, Scarlett! That’s a bit over the top. You can still go, just
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