But if I said anything, anything at all, what would become of me?

When I did see Granny she seemed so sad all the time. She’d visit at least once a week, but she was never really present. Not the way she used to be. It seemed as if she’d given up on life. Grandad’s health was deteriorating. She was struggling. There was even less chance than before that they would be able to take me in. ‘Oh, wee doll, as nice as it is to see you, it’s like a knife to my heart at times. You’re so like your mammy was at that age,’ she would say and break into fresh tears. The last thing I wanted to do was to make her life any harder than it already was. Speaking up would’ve done that.

I already felt guilt-ridden just for reminding her of my mother, but that wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t help how I looked. Maybe if I cut my hair I’d look different. That’s what I was thinking the night I took the big scissors and hacked at my ponytail. I watched my curls fall to the ground. One strand followed by another, followed by another.

Maybe if I looked less like Mammy, Granny wouldn’t be so sad. She wouldn’t cry when she saw me.

Maybe she would invite me to stay more and I could show her what a great help I could be with Grandad, and that I didn’t take up much space, or eat much or need her to spend money on me.

Maybe if I looked less like Mammy, Joe wouldn’t look at me the way he did. He wouldn’t cross the landing at night-time to ‘see if I was okay’ and ‘offer to tuck me in’. He mightn’t tell me how beautiful I was and how I made his heart happy.

He wouldn’t call me his special girl.

Joe had been horrified when he saw what I’d done to my hair. He’d called for Kathleen, who was living with us at the time, and her mouth opened wide in shock like a cartoon character.

‘Oh, Heidi, what have you done to your lovely curls?’ she asked.

I looked downwards. Yes, maybe I’d got carried away with the scissors. I didn’t mean to cut my hair so short, but at the same time, I could see that it had got to Joe and that gave me a sense of satisfaction.

‘Can you do anything with it?’ he asked his sister.

‘Christ, Joe, I don’t think there’s anyone who could do anything with that. We’ll just have to try to tidy it up the best we can.’

Tidying it up the best they could, involved hauling me to the nearest old lady, style-and-set hairdressers. They begged a really rather fed up-looking hairdresser to do her best to fix it. She was clearly about to head home for the day, so they offered her a generous tip.

She did the best she could, but fashioned what could only be described as a crew cut out of it all. The result certainly provoked a reaction, but not one I might have hoped for.