Tragic haircut

When I was ten years old I transferred from commie private school to public junior high. All the other kids were bigger and older than me, which put me at a disadvantage, but what really riled me was the way mother dressed me. Like a little girl, which I was. But I wanted to be dressed like the popular junior high girls.

Worst of all was my hair. I had long, beautiful golden hair, which mother thought would turn to brown if I cut it. But all the other girls wore either a flip or a pageboy. And every day I had the indignity of sitting at the kitchen table while bubbe braided my hair. I hated those braids with a passion. I tormented mother until she gave in and allowed me to go to a beautician and get a decent haircut.

I guess she didn't think I would really do it. When I came home with my new do, she was aghast and went into her room and slammed the door. She didn't speak to me for hours. She was right--when my hair grew out it was a dull brown. And hairwise, it was all downhill from that day forward.