Free 9 1/2 Narrow by Patricia Morrisroe Page B

Girls!”
and Brownies came out of nowhere, chasing us out of the supermarket and down Main Street. It was straight out of
A Hard Day’s Night
and we were totally exhilarated, although we feigned annoyance because we were losing our privacy and soon we wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without getting mobbed. “
We need to tyke a ’olidye wiff our birds
,” Mary said. “
Some place pryvit, like the Galápagos
.”
    There was some discussion about getting Beatles haircuts, but none of us wanted to go that far. When I mentioned it to my mother, she didn’t think it was such a bad idea. “After all, you have the boots. Why not the hair?” My mother never liked my hair; it was now medium length and naturally straight, which in her mind meant lacking body.
    For years she’d been getting perms from Mrs. Godfrey and anything that wasn’t tight and curly read “limp.” “Why not go to Mrs. Godfrey’s and let her take a look,” she suggested.
    Many of the top British models were wearing their hair in a Vidal Sassoon bob, and I thought it might look cute on me. Armed with a stack of fashion magazines, I told Mrs. Godfrey exactly what I wanted: “Something mod and totally fab.” She glanced at the pictures, assuring me that she could easily do any of the styles. Something told me it was a big mistake to let Mrs. Godfrey go anywhere near my head, but since fame had already gone to my head, I wasn’t thinking clearly. She began chopping and chopping, and when she was finished, I didn’t look like a British model. I didn’t look fab. I looked like Moe of the Three Stooges
.
Not wanting to offend Mrs. Godfrey, who was a perfectly nice woman even if she wasn’t Vidal Sassoon, I pronounced it “different.”
    â€œIt’s certainly ‘mod,’” she said.
    To my mother’s eyes, it was worse than mod. It was the dreaded word:
limp
.
    â€œAre you thinking of a perm?” Mrs. Godfrey asked.
    My mother nodded.
    Two hours later, I arrived home with short curly hair, which, had it been longer, would have counted as Andover’s first Afro. “Why is your hair all frizzy?” Bumpa wanted to know. I stared at my mother. “Blame her,” I said. It went through my mind that she did it on purpose to get Paul all to herself. When she came upstairs to ask if I wanted to listen to
A Hard Day’s Night,
I told her to leave.
    â€œWhat happened to you?” Agnes said when I walked into the school yard the next morning. “Did you get electrocuted or something?” All Mary could say was “
Blimey!
”
    During English, Sister Superior charged into the classroom with some “very disturbing news.” We figured the gig was up for Ethel Berger and that she’d be carted away to prison for being a Russian spy and a terrible geography teacher. “I would like to see the Beatle Girls,” she said. Thinking she wanted to book us for a performance, Agnes reached for her calendar, but Sister Superior began tapping her wooden clicker against her palm. One by one, we slowly stood up.
    â€œWhere’s the other Beatle Girl?” Sister Superior asked.
    â€œI think they’re all accounted for,” Ethel Berger said.
    â€œBut aren’t there five Beatles?”
    â€œNo, you’re thinking of the Dave Clark Five,” Bridget offered. “Or maybe you think Pete Best’s still in the band, but he’s not.”
    â€œEnough!” Sister Superior said. “Now what in the name of all the saints and angels in heaven do you think you’re doing impersonating those hoodlums?”
    â€œThe Beatles aren’t hoods,” Bridget said. “They’re rockers who went mod.”
    â€œGo to my office, Bridget. I’ll deal with you later.”
    â€œYou four are a total disgrace to womanhood.” Sister Superior stared at me. “And
you
? I suppose this is the