One of the earliest and most painful recollections of my youth is
associated with hair. I still tingle warmly when I think of it.
I should say I was about eight years old at the time. My mother
sent me down the street to the barber's to have my hair trimmed--
shingled was the term then used. Some of my private collection of
cowlicks had begun to stand up in a way that invited adverse
criticism and reminded people of sunbursts. They made me look as
though my hair were trying to pull itself out by the roots and
escape. So I was sent to the barber's. My little cousin, two
years younger, went along in my charge. It was thought that the
performance might entertain her. I was mounted in a chair and had
a cloth tucked in round my neck, like a self-made millionaire about
to eat consomme. The officiating barber got out a shiny steel
instrument with jaws--the first pair of clippers I had ever seen--
and he ran this up the back of my neck, producing a most agreeable
feeling. He reached the top of my head and would have paused but
I told him to go right ahead and clip me close all over, which he
did.
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