I’m in the kitchen making myself a coffee, enjoying a peaceful March afternoon, when she appears brandishing a fluorescent pink, bob-shaped wig, a styling brush, a crumpled lager can and a jar full of red, shimmering glitter.
Daughter: I need you to play dead.
Daughter: A photography assignment. Oh, and you have to wear this.
Suddenly the world’s a sickly shade of cotton candy pink as she dangles the wig a little too close to my face.
Me: It doesn’t smell good. Where did you get it?
Me: I’m not putting that thing on my head. The previous owner may have had lice.
Daughter: Do you want me to fail my photography A Level?
I know it’s a rhetorical question but the wigs smells so distinctly bad and of ‘a foreign life’ I almost say ‘yes’…
Me: Why do I have to wear it anyway?
Daughter: You’re a party girl into drugs, sex and bad times..
She positions me, very carefully on a dining room chair, then places the wig on my head, pulling down the left side then the right, adjusting the fringe. She takes a step back to observe the subject, as in me, and collapses on the floor laughing..