La Fille has been pestering her big sister all day. Given the 19-year age gap, the Belle Belle-Fille is remarkably patient.
For the last couple of hours La Fille has been badgering her relentlessly to dress her hair. Given the sign in the nursery warning that one of the children has the dreaded "poux" (nits) this patience is saint-like. Still, the Belle Belle-Fille is exacting a kind of revenge: the last time La Fille emerged from her sister's room she had strange unidenfitied plastic objects sprouting from her head.
"She says she wants to look like Sara. Who's Sara?" asks the Belle Belle-Fille.
"One of the children at the nursery," I say.
"What does she look like?"
"She's a pretty little black girl with a mass of hair worn in plaits and ponytails," I say.
The Belle Belle-Fille looks at La Fille's boyish, follicly-challenged, head.
"Ah. Slight problem," she says.
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