Girls!â
and Brownies came out of nowhere, chasing us out of the supermarket and down Main Street. It was straight out of
A Hard Dayâs Night
and we were totally exhilarated, although we feigned annoyance because we were losing our privacy and soon we wouldnât be able to go anywhere without getting mobbed. â
We need to tyke a âolidye wiff our birds
,â Mary said. â
Some place pryvit, like the Galápagos
.â
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 didnât think it was such a bad idea. âAfter all, you have the boots. Why not the hair?â My mother never liked my hair; it was now medium length and naturally straight, which in her mind meant lacking body.
For years sheâd been getting perms from Mrs. Godfrey and anything that wasnât tight and curly read âlimp.â âWhy not go to Mrs. Godfreyâs and let her take a look,â 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: âSomething mod and totally fab.â 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 wasnât thinking clearly. She began chopping and chopping, and when she was finished, I didnât look like a British model. I didnât 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 wasnât Vidal Sassoon, I pronounced it âdifferent.â
âItâs certainly âmod,ââ she said.
To my motherâs eyes, it was worse than mod. It was the dreaded word:
limp
.
âAre you thinking of a perm?â 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 Andoverâs first Afro. âWhy is your hair all frizzy?â Bumpa wanted to know. I stared at my mother. âBlame her,â 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 Dayâs Night,
I told her to leave.
âWhat happened to you?â Agnes said when I walked into the school yard the next morning. âDid you get electrocuted or something?â All Mary could say was â
Blimey!
â
During English, Sister Superior charged into the classroom with some âvery disturbing news.â We figured the gig was up for Ethel Berger and that sheâd be carted away to prison for being a Russian spy and a terrible geography teacher. âI would like to see the Beatle Girls,â 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.
âWhereâs the other Beatle Girl?â Sister Superior asked.
âI think theyâre all accounted for,â Ethel Berger said.
âBut arenât there five Beatles?â
âNo, youâre thinking of the Dave Clark Five,â Bridget offered. âOr maybe you think Pete Bestâs still in the band, but heâs not.â
âEnough!â Sister Superior said. âNow what in the name of all the saints and angels in heaven do you think youâre doing impersonating those hoodlums?â
âThe Beatles arenât hoods,â Bridget said. âTheyâre rockers who went mod.â
âGo to my office, Bridget. Iâll deal with you later.â
âYou four are a total disgrace to womanhood.â Sister Superior stared at me. âAnd
you
? I suppose this is the