“Why don’t you get a permanent wave—it’s cheaper in the end,” Blanche answered.
“Oh, I’m never able to afford it when I do get the impulse, and then I might want it straight again any time. It’s all so much a question of what you’re wearing and how you feel, you know. D’you think I look good in curls?”
Blanche had no opinion whatever on the subject, but she replied: “Yes, indeed, I think they go well with your face.” Patronesses, to her, were simply blanks to be dealt with in rotation, unless they exhibited an ill-temper or an impatience. A spell of silence came as Blanche bent to her task, and then the other girl said: “Don’t you get tired of working all day in this stuffy place? I know I could never stand it myself.” Blanche was used to this question—women who tried hard to show an interest in the beauty-parlor workers but rarely ever really felt it.
“It’s no worse than lots of other things,” she answered. “I’ve got to earn my living some way. I won’t be here all my life though, believe me.”
The conversation continued in this casual strain, with neither woman caring much about what the other said, but with both desiring to lessen the tedium of an hour. Two-thirds of all the words that human beings talk to each other are merely unaffected protections and tilts against an impending boredom.
When Blanche came home from work that night, the members of her family were seated at the supper-table. After she joined them they began to twit her about her approaching engagement with Campbell.
“Gonna make him buy the license, Blanche?” Harry asked.
“Yes, a dog license,” she answered.
“That’s a fine crack to make against a fellow like Joe,” Harry replied. “You’re not good enough f’r him, ’f you ask me.”
“’F you give me one of your hankies I’ll cry about it,” she said. “Maybe that’ll suit you.”