XV
One day I was with Mollie in her flat, and we were dressing to go out. We were in her bedroom brushing our hair, and I remembered that dance at Yearsly on Guy’s twenty-first birthday, and old Nunky brushing my hair. I had been so pleased with my hair that night, and so had she, and now suddenly I hated it.
I said:
‘I do wish my hair was different, I am so tired of it like this,’
Mollie said:
‘Your hair is lovely, Helen. I always envy you the way it curls.’
I said:
‘It is so dull, just brown and ordinary. I wish it was bright yellow, or black and straight.’
Mollie looked round at me; she was brushing her own hair.
‘You poor pretty thing,’ she said, and threw her arms round my neck. ‘Oh, Helen, I’m so sorry for you, but don’t mind—it will be all right.’
Then I began to cry, and she comforted me. We never said what was the matter, but of course we both knew.