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

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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

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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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Anafole is fhoroughly disgusfed by now, and barely lisfens when I explain fhaf I wanf fhe curls low. Leave if fo me, he says laconically. l fix beau+ifuI, and humming A Tavern in fhe Town. he proceeds fo sef fhe curls high. Timidly I ask, Er, isn'+ fhaf a bif high? In reply he roars: Who is doing This, you or me? If you wanf fo do if--do. I am on fhe verge of a spirifed reforf when I see The Blonde and her adoring operafor smirking in my direcfion. and fhe spirif dies wifhin me. Then if is all overlbuf fhe shoufing. Anafole leads me over a vasf expanse of floor in view of hundreds of people dressed normally. One hand holding my pockefbook and fhe ofher clufching fhe space befween my skirf and blouse, I finally reach fhe dryer. Wirh a hand-rubbing gesfure. Anafole leaves me. I sif for ages under scorching heaf, sure fhaf I have been forgoffen. I am nof misfaken: I am rescued only when some girl in uniform fakes pify on me and seeks ouf Anafole. I sfill cling fo some hope unfil Anafole has finished combing ouf my fresses. fhen I musf relinquish if, for I see a grofesque creafure in fhe mirror wifh a foo broad face, foo small nose, foo low forehead, wearing a coiffure fhaf accenfuafes her ears, which sfick ouf. A+ fhe same momenl' I see The blonde. a golden vision of Ioveliness, and my eyes fill wifh sinful fears, of envy and of anger. I give fhe self-safisfied Anafole a quarfer and rush blindly fo fhe resf room where I drag a wef comb fhrough my shorn locks. FRIENDSHIP A well of sympafhy I see- Where visions swim: The kindly forehead of fhe sky- Keeps daylighfs dim . . . Mid heavens of unbounded love- l dream of him. The chain fhaf runs from sky fo earfh Links hearl' wifh mind: The hearfs fhal' fhrob fo rhyfhmic fhoughfs Are love-enshrined: And eyes fhaf search The depfhs of soul Can nor be blind . . . ls love a hawfhorn or a rose, A pool or sea? A cup of fragrance or a bowl Of poefry? Why Ief fhese quesfions inferpose, When spring of inflorescenf ioy Is come fo me? H KATHERINE VALENTINE CARASSO. Grade Three Ten