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. I can tell by his look that he is
grieved and downcast, and that he will probably go home and be
cross to the children. He has but one solace--he hopes to have
better luck with me next time. And probably he will.

The last age of hair is a wig. But wigs are not so very
satisfactory either. I've seen all the known varieties of wigs,
and I never saw one yet that looked as though it were even on
speaking terms with the head that was under it. A wig always
looks as though it were a total stranger to the head and had just
lit there a minute to rest, preparatory to flying along to the
next head. Nevertheless, I think on the whole I'll be happier
when my time comes to wear one, because then no barber can roach
me up.





Hands and Feet




Nearly every boy has a period in his life when he is filled with
an envious admiration for the East India god with the extra set of
arms--Vishnu, I think this party's name is. To a small boy it
seems a grand thing to have a really adequate assortment of hands.