RELUCTANT PRESS

gentle hands working with my hair. Yet, I knew there was more to it and this scared me. I was beginning to get a strange, sensual feeling as soon as my mother said "hair time"!

Was this caused by my getting my hair done, or because it was a feminine thing to do? Either way made me feel like I was perverted.

In the process though, I did learn a lot about hair styling and one evening, when Mom was particularly tired after a long day, I offered to set her hair and this then became another nightly routine. I kind of enjoyed this but was deathly afraid anybody would find out and repeatedly made Mom promise not to tell anybody. I had trouble enough with my image since I was only five foot six and weighed one hundred ten pounds.

She could not understand why my setting her hair should be such a big secret. "Some of the best hairdressers in the world are men and you certainly have a knack for it. You do my hair as well as I do, better in fact. You should be proud of your talent. I think you should seriously consider a career in hair styling."

I got her to promise not to say anything to anybody. That would be all I needed for everyone at school to know I was going to become a hairdresser!

I was already looked down on as a sissy and didn't need any more humiliation.

But, I really did enjoy doing her hair and found I got the same aroused feelings when I set her hair as when she did mine. What kind of weirdo was I? I increasingly asked myself. I even tried to stop this nightly ritual, citing, "too much homework," or, "not feeling well,"; but, my mother insisted I continue.

"There's nothing stopping you from doing your homework while I do your hair and putting my hair up only takes you fifteen minutes. You can surely spare that for your tired mother," she noted sternly, throwing in the sympathy factor as well.

And to be honest with myself, I was glad that she had not let me stop. Yes, I could now pretend I was forced to go through these feminine activities, yet at the same time I

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RUFFLES & CURLES

By Kammi Morton

could not keep from taking increasingly greater pleasure from these "ordeals". -000-

One evening, a couple of weeks before Mom's graduation, she mentioned at supper there was a styling contest for all the students. It was actually like a final exam, but prizes were awarded for the top three.

"I'm sure you'll win first prize, Mom," I said supportively. "I do think I have a good chance, but I'll need to practice a lot, OK?"

I knew this meant I would be spending the next few nights getting my hair curled and teased over and over, but I did not protest, knowing I was helping my mother and it would soon all be over and I would never have a curler in my hair again.

For the next three nights I would have my hair washed, set, dried, and styled at least twice each evening with Mom trying a variety of setting patterns, sizes of rollers, comb outs, etc.

And then the other shoe dropped!

We were having breakfast on Sunday morning when Mom mentioned she would need a model for the hair styling contest.

"Where do you get somebody for that?" I asked in complete innocence.

"I was hoping you would do it, Danny." "WHAT! No way Mom, please. I'd be the laughingstock of the whole place and I'm sure word would get out at school too. I'd die of embarrassment."

"I did consider all that, but you have such perfect hair for the style I am going to do and I have it down to perfection with our practicing. No two heads are alike and so it would be difficult to get it just right on someone else. It is not all that important that I win the contest, but there will be representatives from some of the major salons present and they use this contest as part of their interviewing process so it does have a big impact on getting a job."

Oh boy, here come the guilt feelings. If I refused I could prevent my mother from working which of course also would have an effect on me. But still, the thought of sitting in front of a group of people watching me get my hair done gave me

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