I object to having my head look like a real-estate
development with an opening for a new street going up each side
and an ornamental design in fancy landscape gardening across the
top. If I permit this I won't be able to keep on saying that I
was twenty-seven on my last birthday, with some hope of getting
away with it. So I insist that he put my front hair right back
where he found it. He does so, under protest and begrudgingly,
it is true, but he does it. And then, watching his opportunity,
he runs in on me and overpowers me and roaches it up some more.
If I weaken and submit he is happy as the day is long. If he
gets it roached up on both sides that will make me look like a
horizontal-bar performer, which is his idea of manly beauty. Or
if he gets it roached up on one side only there is still some
consolation in it for him I'm liable to be mistaken anywhere for
a trained-animal performer. But once in a very great while he
doesn't get it roached up on either side, but has to stand there
and suffer as he sees me walk forth into the world with my hair
combed to suit me and not him.
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