Matilda said nothing. She simply sat there admiring the wonderful effect of her own handiwork.
Mr Wormwood's fine crop of black hair was now a dirty silver,
the colour this time of a tightrope-walker's tights that had not been washed for the entire circus season.
“You've... you've... you've dyed it!” shrieked the mother. “Why did you do it, you fool!
It looks absolutely frightful! It looks horrendous! You look like a freak!”
“What the blazes are you all talking about?” the father yelled, putting both hands to his hair.
“I most certainly have not dyed it! What d'you mean I've dyed it? What's happened to it? Or is this some sort of a stupid joke?”
His face was turning pale green, the colour of sour apples. “You must have dyed it, dad,” the son said.
“It's the same colour as mum's only much dirtier looking.” “Of course he's dyed it!” the mother cried.
“It can't change colour all by itself! What on earth were you trying to do, make yourself look handsome or something?
You look like someone's grandmother gone wrong!” “Get me a mirror!” the father yelled.
“Don't just stand there shrieking at me! Get me a mirror!” The mother's handbag lay on a chair at the other end of the table.
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