"Must be nice and stiff," Matilda commented. "I'd hate to have my hair all wire."
Grandmother lifted her spectacles from the wart and peered through them critically. "I dunno," she said, "as it'd look any different, except for the colour. The way you're settin' now, against the light, I can see bristles stickin' out all over it, same as if 'twas wire."
"Fluffy hair is all the style now," said Matilda, complacently.
"Fluffy!" Grandmother grunted. "If that's what you call it, I reckon it'll soon go out. It might have been out for fifteen or twenty years and you not know it. I don't believe any self-respectin' woman would let her hair go like that. Why 'n the name of common sense can't you take a hair brush and wet it in cold water and slick it up, so's folks can see that it's combed? Mine's always slick, and nobody can't say that it isn't."
Grandmother's Disappointment
"Yes," Matilda agreed with a scornful glance, "it is slick, what there is of it."
Grandmother's head burned pink through her scanty white locks and her eyes flashed dangerously. Somewhat frightened, Matilda hastened to change the subject.
"She wears her hair like mine."
"She?" repeated Grandmother, pricking up her ears, "Who's she?"
"You know—the company up to Marshs'."