Abstract
The truth is I'm really not pretty. Attractive, not pretty. Nice eyes, good figure, but the real secret is my hair. At age 47 I still have coal-black tresses, managing the few gray strands with an eyebrow tweezer. It's a beautiful head of hair. My mother called it my crowning glory and taught me how to make the most of it. I remember all the styles and methods: corkscrew curls, frizzy permanent-wave machine curls, home permanent curls, pin curls every night of my teenaged life, ponytails, upsweeps, permission denied for the short Italian style of the 50s, and teased to tears in the 60s. Then I finally discovered Jamison, to whom I've entrusted my treasure for 20 years. Now I must part with my beautiful black hair. Soon I will lose it and replace it with an uncomfortable wig and little kerchiefs, rags—schmates as we say in Yiddish. I had
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