From day one at the school they all whispered about me. Nowadays they don’t even bother to whisper – they say it straight to my face. You are an impudent young girl and you do not belong here with us, the intellectual elite. It bothers them still more than I really don’t care, and I make it so obvious. Yesterday, in class, the Directeur tried to pick at the thread of my temper when he asked me what I thought I was playing at with my ridiculous costume I had taken to wearing.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” I said.

“You keep coming to these classes dressed as a boy,” the Directeur pointed out.

I was so sick of trying to paint in my silly lace gowns that for several mornings now, with Dorian’s permission, I had raided his wardrobe for his cast-offs. He’d given me some old boiled wool breeches in dark charcoal, a white cotton shirt and a houndstooth waistcoat. I liked the way the wool trousers and the cotton felt against my skin. And, oh, the unbelievable freedom of movement! Dorian gave me jackets too – and socks and ties and it was marvellous to be dressed at last in clothes that were comfortable.

“Mademoiselle Bonifait,” the Directeur said to me. “You must dress like a lady to attend the Paris School.”

“But, sir,” I replied. “I thought ladies weren’t allowed to attend the Paris School. And now I am dressed like a boy you do not like that either? You should make up your mind.”

Even the boys in class, most of whom hate me for being there, had to laugh at that. As for the Directeur, he huffed that I had better “change my appearance by morning”.

Well, that made me so cross I decided I certainly would change it! In the bathroom mirror that night I stared at my reflection and my long, dark ringlet curls, which I usually shaped each evening before bed by wrapping them in brown paper to keep the curl precise. Well, I thought, Monsieur Directeur, you are right. I must change. No more brown paper for me.

I got out the scissors from Mama’s old sewing kit. The blades were so sharp that when I ran my finger along to test them, I nearly sliced the tip of my finger clean off. I sheared into my long, dark ringlets and the blade cut through the hair like butter. After I’d shorn them off, I tidied up using a pudding bowl to create a shape.

The pile of hair on the floor beside me looked a bit like a rat scurrying across the floorboards. Then Dorian came in and asked me what on earth I had done.

“I look more like you now, don’t you think?” I teased him.