People say that suicide is selfish, but that’s only if you have anyone to leave behind. Who’s going to care about me when I’m gone? I’d thought that I still had Daddy, but even he now seems to be tiring of me – pandering to the whims of my mother, listening to her lies about me. I was never who she accused me of being. It’s almost as if she wanted me to be bad, so that she could justify to herself why she was a useless excuse for a mother. I feel nothing for her now, and my feelings for him are waning.

And there is no one else.

I never expected to be alone in this world. As a child, I’d imagined a big family full of fun and laughter, bickering over Christmas dinner, falling out with my siblings and then making up, knowing that they would always be there for me, no matter what.

But I never had any siblings. My mother made sure of that. I suppose I’ve been subconsciously seeking out that love ever since, confusing friendship and family, becoming obsessed, I suppose, although I am loath to admit it. The truth is I have been let down. By everyone I’ve come into contact with. That’s hardly my fault, now – is it?

I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, dressing quickly in one of the more muted outfits I bought when I arrived – dark jeans, red Converse, a striped vest and a neat, grey cotton jacket on top. I tie my hair back and stuff it into a baseball cap, and don a pair of sunglasses that block out most of my face.

I’m invisible now, as I head through the foyer and into the street. I am not the glamour girl from before. There is no reason for anyone to notice me.

Back in the same hair salon – I can’t help myself – my friendly stylist from before is not on duty. I feel a prickle of disappointment, but I blink it away. It’s for the best. I shouldn’t even have come back here. The allocated stylist is punky and bored-looking. He ignores my attempts at conversation. He doesn’t care who I am. I point at an image in a magazine – chosen entirely at random from the first page I’d opened it at – and he raises his expertly pencilled brows, just for a moment, and then he shrugs and gives me something close to a smile. I’ve piqued his interest now, and he tries to engage me, but I stick my nose back in the magazine and ignore him.

I get through the process – cut, colour, rinse. A young girl in a candy-pink dress with goldilocks-style plaits sweeps away my blonde hair, and I don’t look in the mirror again until it’s done.