Girls High School of Brooklyn - Blue and Gold Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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STYLED BY AlNIATCDI.E VIRGINIA WOLFENBERGER, Grade EighT UCI-I has been wriTTen by such people as Cornelia OTis Skinner and The provincial lady abouT Their ''proTessionaI-peopIe-pho- bias. I recall a delicious biT by The Tormer abouT her dreadTuI experiences wiTh The oTTiciaIs oT an empIoymenT agency, and a Tew paragraphs by The laTTer abouT The TerriTying salespeople one encounTers when in search of a parTy dress. BuT why hasn'T eiTher OT Them or DoroT'hy Parker wriTTen someThing enTiTled NighTmares in a BeauTy Shop, or I-Iellish I-Iairdressers ? Is iT because none oT Them connecT a session in a beauTy salon wiTh nighTmares, TorTures and agony? I can'T be The only Temale who goes To ThaT seaT Iso horribly like a combinaTion oT The eIecTric and denTisT chairsl wiTh a peTriTied hearT and The blood Trozen in my veins. Perhaps I am The TirsT To Take my courage inTo my hands and cry ouT in proTesT againsT This dreadTuI sysTem. By The same law oT coincidence which Tinds one in The baThTub when The Tele- phone rings, or cold cream on one's Tace when company calls. I am always wearing The mosT unbecoming Trock I own when keeping an appoinTmenT wiTh The hairdresser. I am received by a sophisTicaTed individual wiTh orange hair and green Tinger nails who sneers aT me over an enormous desk. She has a grudge againsT humaniTy and asks in an angry voice il I wish any parTicuIar operaTor. For a TIeeTing second I consider summoning up my courage and asking Tor some one new. BuT insTead I ask in a Teeble voice Tor AnaToIe. I have been asking Tor AnaToIe in The same Teeble voice Tor years, and aIThough I am TrighTened To deafh oT The man, iT is only in momenTs oT madness ThaT I even consider Trying any one else. The creaTure wiTh The orange hair asks me To waiT and indicaTes a beauTiTuI plush chair inTo which I sink graTeTulIy. BUT iT is only a Tew momenTs beTore I am aware ThaT because oT The peculiar angle oT The seaT, I am pracTicaIIy on a parallel wiTh The Tloor. This is in iTseIT disTurbing enough, buT combined wiTh The knowledge ThaT my skirT is noT adeguaTe To cover me in This unnaTural posiTion, I am reduced To abiecT humiIiaTion. I hurriedly regain my perpendicular and choose The soTa, where I siT sharply conscious ol: The dusTiness oT my suede shoes againsT a luscious Turquoise carpeT. IT is here ThaT AnaToIe Tinds me. I-Ie greeTs EighT

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mischieT in lv1aTT, which gave him speed and nimbleness when They were needed Tor his own good, snaTched him Trom his Tear and made him iump quickly To The door. Taking The key Trom iTs place on a small nail, he ran ouT, locking The door behind him and Throwing The key aimlessly inTo The plie of snow. Then, pockeTing his hands, he whisTled his way across The bridge To The village. l-le was The picTure of innocence as he walked down Main STreeT, whisTling wiTh his head high as if musing on The probable weaTher. On his way he passed Mrs. Widibble, moTher oT The A-l boy oT The school: and when she inquired why her son was noT yeT home, he answered direcTly, Well, BurTon weren'T so very knowing To-day, likes as he always is, neiTher was The resT, so The masTer ThoughT as iT were besT To keep Them in and give Them a liTTle more schooling. ThaT's whaT iT were. How come They leT you ouT? Mrs. Widibble asked indignanTly. BUT lvlaTT did noT Think The quesTion needed any answer: so he iusT resumed his whisTling and Trudged along. His ruse did noT lasT long, however, Tor The TownsTolk, missing Their children, wenT over To The school-which was separaTed from The village proper by a bridge -and released The prisoners. MaTT was duly rewarded ThaT evening when The news reached his TaTher. Fly did noT go back To school The nexT day buT gave The Spider Time To cool down a liTTle beTore 'facing him again. ATTer ThaT maior crime, iT seemed ThaT whaTever MaTT did, MasTer Abercrumble always popped up To see The worsT side of The deed. The Spider's ghosT sTood beTween MaTT and good behavior, and MaTT did noT hesiTaTe To blame The Teacher Tor his wickedness. He had ThoughT oT running away once, buT when he reached The bridge, There was The l-laTed One coming Towards him wiTh some Tree branches which he used Tor The naTure sTudy. MaTT Turned down The road and walked despondenTly home. lT was no use. l-le would iusT have To live Through wiTh iT unTil ThaT impeneTrable. inhuman sTrucTure called MasTer Abercrumble, Tinally weakened under The sTrain of aTTempTing To Teach village children: and he would have To leave The counTry To re- cuperaTe from nervous breakdown. Then and only Then could MaTT really become a good boy.

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me wiTh a flashing LaTin smile which insTanTIy changes inTo a ferocious frown. WhaT, he asks. is ThaT? Quaking, I look down aT my gym suiT which I am Taking home for a washing. As coldly as possible I Tell him whaT iT is. Ah, he answers disparagingly, and Turning on his heel wiTh a miIiTary click. he adds, Come, Scooping up my books and The offending gym suiT, I follow him. I seaf myself in The chair and Anafole Takes my Things and The gym suiT, which he holds beTween Thumb and forefinger. I hold my breaTh, clench my fisTs, and lean back while he washes my hair. Ugh, he uTTers, picking up a sTrand gingerly, FiIThy. I don'T see how ThaT can be, AnaToIe. I was here only a week ago, I reTorT, sTung by his uniusT remark uTTered in a loud voice, which awakens inTeresT in The girl opposife me. She is a blond wiTh flawless skin and is holding inTimaTe conver- saTion wiTh her operaTor, who is helping her ouT of a mink swagger coaT and unpinning an orchid corsage from her shoulder. In a few minuTes The washing is over and TorTure comparable To The Iron BooT begins. I am well supplied wiTh mirrors and a brighf IighT shines down from over my head. I can'T remember ever looking so repulsive before. Where do you wanT The parT? inquires Anafole. ' I Think I'I Try The righT side, I reply. No, answers AnaToIe emphafically. Your face is Toowide, your forehead. she is Too low, your mouTh, she is Too big, and your ears sfick ouT. AfTer delivering This invenTory in a loud voice, he proceeds To parT my hair in The middle. I hear The operaTor saying To The blonde in a caressing voice, Ah, Mademoiselle, iT is a ioy--a bil' of sweeT ecsfacy To creaTe a coiffure for a face like yours. I Try To caTch her reply, buf can'T, and Tall To wondering whaT she could say To a complimen-T supreme. Meanwhile AnaToIe Tugs and pulls, and finally breaks my reverie like ThaT by asking disgus+edIy why I have ben dyeing my hair. I proTesT Trufhfully ThaT I haven'T even Touched iT, buT he waves away my explanaTions and I see The Blonde Ieering maliciously ouT of large. black-fringed vioIeT eyes. Soon I hear The sound for which I have been waiTing. IT is The click-click of AnaTole's scissors. I don'T wanT any hair cuT off, I say firmly. CuT? asks Anafole in asTonishmenT. Miss Virginia, I wouldn'T cuT ony of your hair. No. I wanT iusT To Thin iT a lee+le. No, I reply. I don'T wanT iT even Thinned. I don'T wanT iT Touched. O, K. I won'T Touch iT. JusT a Ieefle biT Thinned, and he clicks his scissors perilously near my ear. I jump and say sTubbornIy, AnaToIe, I wanT my hair To grow, and The IasT Time you Thinned iT you Took a good Two inches off. Dramafically, Anafole lays down his scissors and Takes off my bib wiTh a flourish. There, he says, UGO. I can do noThing unless I Thin your hair. She is like a rug. IT is ridiculous To even Think of my going home wiTh my hair dripping down my neck: so conquered and humiliafed, I give in. BuT I resolve never To be so foolish again, for when he is finished iT is Too shorT. Nine