I was seven years old and spending a day with my grandmother.  She gave me a nickel.  It was the largest amount of money ever placed in my grubby little paw.  Had I been at home, Mother would have made me get my piggy bank and promptly deposit this princely gift into Monsieur Swine's slot.  But away from mother's vigilance, I played with the nickel.  I spun it, set it on its edge, and tried flipping it in the air the way my uncles did.  It was my first venture into the delights of avarice.




      
      Until I was eleven, Mother always braided my hair into French braids. French braids start close to the temples and are woven more tightly than a regular braid.  I hated them; they caused my eyes to pull back into little slits giving me the appearance of a migraine sufferer in a hurricane.

        Small wonder that I loved short hair, dreamed of short hair, coveted short hair.  I especially admired my friend Julie's haircut.  It fell in soft waves over her ears and swept back in tender swirls across the nape of her neck.  I pulled out all my eleven-year-old stops, begging mom for such a haircut.  But her answer was always the same. "No, you are not getting your lovely, long, shiny hair cut, Kathy!” End of discussion.