My mother cut the
string and my aunt lifted the lid.
I should prefer again to draw a veil over the scenes that now
ensued, but the necessity of finishing this narrative requires me
to state that it being a Saturday and the head barber being a busy
man, he had not taken time to sort out my cousin's curls from among
the flotsam and jetsam of his establishment, but had just swept up
enough off the floor to make a good assorted boxful. I think the
oldest inhabitant had probably dropped in that day to have himself
trimmed up a little round the edges. I seem to remember a quantity
of sandy whiskers shot with gray. There was enough hair in that
box and enough different kinds and colors of hair and stuff to
satisfy almost any taste, you would have thought, but my mother and
aunt were anything but satisfied. On the contrary, far from it.
And yet my cousin's hair was all there, if they had only been
willing to spend a few days sorting it out and separating it from
the other contents.
In this particular instance I was the exception to the rule, that
hair generally gives a boy no great trouble from the time he merges
out of babyhood until he puts on long pants and begins to discern
something strangely and subtly attractive about the sex described
by Mr.
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