though they had been sketched on lightly with a very soft drawing
pencil and would wipe off readily. That, however is the inception
and beginning of what afterward becomes, among our race, hair. To
look at it you could hardly believe it, but it is. Barring
accidents or backwardness, it continues to grow from that time on
through our childhood, but its behavior is always a profound
disappointment. If the child is a girl and, therefore, entitled to
curly hair, her hair is sure to come in stiff and straight. If
it's a boy, to whom curls will be a curse and a cross of affliction,
he is morally certain to be as curly as a frizzly chicken, and
until he gets old enough to rebel he will wear long ringlets and
boys of his acquaintance will insert cockle-burs and chewing gum
into his tresses, and he will be known popularly as Sissie and
otherwise his life with be made joyous and carefree for him. If a
reddish tone of hair is desired it is certain to grow out yellow
or brown or black; and if brown is your favorite shade you are
absolutely sure to be nice and red-headed, with eyebrows and lashes
to match, and so many cowlicks that when you remove your hat people
will think you're wearing two or three halos at once. Hair rarely
or never acts up to its advance notices.

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