“Her hair grows like tobacco plants,” exclaimed Iris. She was the no-frills hairstylist who made house calls. “Folds upon folds.”

My mother loved my thick, abundant hair and let it grow past my waistline. It was laborious to upkeep, but she was not going to allow fifth grade pranksters, who stuck a gob of gum in it, rob me of my crowning glory.

Iris pulled, tucked, and chopped off a large chunk.  Any other person would have a bald spot, but not me. The tobacco-like swirls swallowed the butchered hair.

Iris charged Mom a few extra dollars for her services.

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