“Poll’s sorry!”
“He don’t know what he is talking about, does he?” asked Lucy, looking a little abashed. “Any way I shall have my curls cut, Miss Polly; see if I don’t!”
“Your curls cut—that hair cut!” exclaimed old Mr. Wynne, coming in at the door; “not at my shop, you little rogue. What do you suppose your mother would do to me? I’ll be bound she sets her life by ’em: Many a lady who brings her little girl here to have her hair curled with the curling-tongs, when she is going to a party, would give her eyes for these natural curls of yours. No, no, Miss Lucy, you would get me into a pretty scrape there at home. Ah! when you are a little older, you will not be in such a hurry to part with ’em, to my thinking—better run home to your ma, Miss Lucy!”
“My mother sent me here,” said Lucy; “and see here is the money to pay you for cutting my hair.”
“Now really, Miss Lucy? honor bright?
“Really and truly,” said Lucy.
“Well—it’s a sin and a shame; but I’ll do it if your ma said so; look here, Jacob!” and Mr. Wynne lifted the heavy curls on his finger; “not an uneven hair in ’em, Jacob, and just as soft as silk.”
“Make a dozen frizettes,” said Jacob; “a good job for us, any how.”
“Yes; and if it was a boy’s hair I shouldn’t mind. I hate to see a boy curled and befrizzed; I think somehow it puts puppy notions in his head, that he don’t ever get rid of; but a little girl is another matter. St. Paul says, you know.”