First

Kindergarten. I had long, shiny hair. Which Mom had cut into a short, stylish shag - no doubt after too much twisted end-chewing, or on

e too many pieces of gum being cut out of it. Short = practical. And Mom only had so much time in the

morning - with four kids, a job, no spouse.

I can recall sitting on the bench seat of the

fam

ily car, post-cut. We had gone to a 'real' hair cutting place. A beauty school, with rows of chairs.

Driving home, in our olive green (metallic brown?) Buick - just before the station wagon - I scootched across the brown pleather bench seat to the middle, to see my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I couldn't quite reconcile that She... was me.

Time has not adjusted that first impression. Pictures (and family movies) prove: it was awful.

On the day I came to school with new hair, the boy (Mike Rhodes! I remember, I remember!) wouldn't talk to me.

The last two to be picked up, every day, I approached Mike Rhodes (I think of the name like "Charlie Brown -" always to be said as one) on the stairs after school, where we waited for our (working) mothers.

"Remember me? You said I was your girlfriend!" (A word it took great courage to speak out loud.)

With visible distaste, and incredulity, he replied.. "What? I don''t even know you. MY girlfriend has LONG HAIR. You look like a BOY." And, if memory is correct, he then moved to a different stair.

And the moral, of course (since cautionary tales have those) is: Say nice things. People remember the mean stuff.