o I have a confession to make: I haven’t come here totally unprepared. I mean, I can’t expect them to do everything, can I? If I want to be cool, I have to put a little effort in. Participate in my own metamorphosis.

So I spent a few hours last night doing some research on the internet. I know a whole lot more about the fashion industry than I did before. And I’m kind of excited because now I get a chance to prove it and, maybe, start making a little progress in the right direction.

“Sit down, sweetheart,” one of the women wearing black says. I’ve been taken out of the snow and put into a little hotel room just behind Red Square. I’ve never seen so many beauty products, make-up items and hairbrushes. There’s even one of those headlamps set up, like the one my grandma uses when she gets a perm.

I sit down. Another woman gets a piece of paper out and looks at it. “Are you kidding me?” she says in disbelief. “No cat eyes? Doesn’t Yuka know it’s all about cat eyes this season?”

The other woman shrugs. “Prada have just done it so it’s officially over already.”

I blink. This isn’t quite the conversation I was gearing up for, but I shall do my best to keep up.

“You know,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to look as casual as possible, “cats’ eyes have a mirror-like membrane on the back to maximise light exposure. That’s why they shine in the dark.”

The two ladies look at me. “That’s… nice.”

“And on the subject of fashion,” I add quickly, mentally trawling through the research I did last night, “did you know that in the eighteenth century it was very hip to stick on eyebrows made out of mice skin?”

They gaze at me in silence.

“Also,” I add, determined to keep going until they’re impressed, “did you know that there are buttons on coat sleeves because Napoleon ordered them to stop his soldiers wiping their noses on their jackets?”

“That’s gross,” one of them points out.

“But weirdly interesting,” the other one adds.

See? I told you my research would pay off. I’ve already won over a little bit of the fashion industry with my hip knowledge.

“Now,” she continues, looking at the list again, “we’ve got just enough time to do your make-up after. And get you into the clothes.”

I stare at her and then I stare at Dad who’s wandering around the room picking things up and putting them down again. (“Look, Harriet! A Russian Bible! It’s all in Russian!”) Dad shrugs nonchalantly as I raise my eyebrows at him. “No idea what anyone’s talking about, sweetheart. Don’t look at me.”

“After what?” I ask tentatively, looking at Wilbur.

We’ve got an hour and a half. How much time does it take to put on a bit of lipstick and a dress? How much time does it take to make me into a model? How ugly do they think I am?

Wilbur claps his hands together. “Ah, my little Pineapple-chunk, this is the best bit,” he explains. “I’ve been excited about it ever since I saw The List.”

I look around the room and already I can feel a sense of impending doom. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, come on,” Wilbur shouts in excitement, starting to jump up and down. “What happens to the Ugly Duckling to turn her into a swan?”

The blood drains from my face. “You’re making me go swimming?”

“Yes!” Wilbur shouts excitedly. “We’re making you go—” and then he stops. “What? No, honey. We’re giving you a haircut.” At which point the door opens.

“And that,” Wilbur adds, pointing to the incredibly short man who has just walked in, “is the wizard who is going to transform you.”

 

Right, I’m not sure what fairytales Wilbur has been reading, but at no stage in any of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories does the Ugly Duckling get a haircut.

The Ugly Duckling gradually becomes the beautiful bird on the outside that he always was on the inside. It’s a story about inner beauty and embracing who you truly are and fulfilling your destiny (and also ignoring mean ducks who have a go at you in the process).

He doesn’t just get a haircut. I’ve tried explaining this to Wilbur, but he’s having none of it. “What are you talking about, Treacle-bottom?” he says distractedly, still dancing round my chair like some kind of excited leprechaun. “So how does he go from all ratty and grey to beautiful and smooth and white then? Are you telling me a hairdresser wasn’t involved?”

I’m not quite sure what to say to that, so instead I shut up and stare at the hairdresser – a French man called Julien – who is walking solemnly round in the opposite direction.

“Now,” Julien says, “ma petite puce. Wot iz your name again?”

“Harriet Manners,” I say, sticking my hand out awkwardly. Did he just call me a flea?

Julien stares at my hand in shock. “Mon Dieu,” he says, appalled. “I am French. We do not touch ’ands. It is un’igienic.”

“Sorry,” I say, pulling it back as quickly as possible and wiping it on my trousers.

“Non, instead we do a little kissin’. Like zis.” And he leans forward and kisses Wilbur three times on the cheeks and then once lingeringly on the lips.

Wilbur giggles. “Best bit of my trip,” he whispers to me behind his hand. “I do love Frenchmen.”

“Ze lip bit was just for Wilbur,” Julien explains. “We don’t do zat in France. Alors.” He grabs my face and stands behind me, looking into the mirror. Then Wilbur’s face pokes up to the right, and Dad’s face pokes up to the left until all three are staring at me like a bad eighties album cover.

“Zis ’air,” Julien continues. “It iz big.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“It iz too big. It iz… ’ow you say… flooding you.”

“Drowning?” Dad offers helpfully.

“Mais oui. You are nuthin’ but a little wave in an ocean of ’air. We cannot see your features. It iz all lost.” Julien looks at Wilbur and then looks back at me. “Yuka iz right,” he says finally, and Wilbur gives a little squeal as if somebody just trod on his toe and he’s happy about it. I’m not feeling as comfortable with this conversation as I should be.

“Your ’air,” Julien explains in a nonchalant voice, “iz too big for your ’ead.”

“It’s supposed to be,” I explain. “More room to hide.”

“Non.” Julien pushes me back down again. “A little ’ead needs little ’air.”

“And a little ego needs lots,” I argue, but it’s too late. Julien has put a thick lock of my hair between his scissors and he’s moving them closer and closer to my head. “Dad!” I yell. “Do something!”

“Touch a hair on my daughter’s head,” Dad says firmly, standing up, “and my wife will sue you all.”

“OK,” Julien shrugs.

And then he lops the whole lot off.