"What a queer smell! It's like burned feathers," observed Amy,
smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.

"There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud
of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.

She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared,
for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser
laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.

"Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I'm spoiled! I can't go! My
hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven
frizzle on her forehead.

"Just my luck! You shouldn't have asked me to do it. I always
spoil everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so
I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black
pancakes with tears of regret.

"It isn't spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so
the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the
last fashion. I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly.

"Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair
alone," cried Meg petulantly.

"So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow
out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.