Mart sat upright. “Say, I’ll do it for you—if you want me to. We can go straight home now. We’ll divide our clams when we get to our house. That is if you’re not afraid.”
“Afraid—of just cutting my hair? I may look a sight but who cares? I’ll do it. Come on!” Sidney sprang to her feet, a challenge in her voice that Mart, of course, could not understand.
Mart rose more leisurely and took the dripping basket of clams and seaweed. They were not far from Sunset Lane. It took them but a few moments to reach the Calkins’ house—not long enough for Sidney’s courage to falter.
“Gran’ma isn’t home, but anyway she wouldn’t say anything. She lets me do just as I please. She never said a word when I cut my own hair. Sit down here and I’ll find the shears in a jiffy.”
Sidney sat down in a rush-bottomed chair, thrilling pleasantly. This was a high moment in her life—the clipping of the two despised braids; a declaration of independence, a symbol of a freedom as great as Mart’s. And certainly Mart must be impressed by the way she had responded to the suggestion. “Afraid!” Well, Mart might laugh at things she said but she would see that she was quite her own mistress.
Mart returned with a pair of huge shears.
“Of course I can’t do it as good as a regular barber but it’ll be good enough for the first time and around here, anyway. Sure you don’t mind? Your hair is dandy!” While she was speaking she was unbraiding one pigtail. She shook it out. “It’s awful thick and wavy. Mebbe you could sell it. I’ve heard of girls doing that but I don’t know’s there’s any place around here. Sit still, now, so I can get it straight.”
Click. Sidney shut her eyes and sat rigid with a fearful certainty that she must suffer physical pain from the operation. Click. The touch of the steel against her neck sent icy shivers down her spine.
“There, now—it’s off,” cried Mart, taking a step backward. “It’s sort of crooked but that won’t show when it’s all loose. Go in gran’ma’s room and take a look at yourself.”
Sidney turned and stared stupidly at the mass of hair in Martie’s hand. It was beautiful hair. For an instant she wanted to cry out in a violent protest; she checked it as it rose to her lips. Mart’s eyes were on her. She managed instead a little laugh. “It feels so funny.”