even Ruth could understand her. “Today she gets married and, as you can see, her hair-style is not in the fashion. I think a good cut, no? A manicure? And it is necessary for her to have make-up to improve her face!”
“At once, signora ! If the signorina will pass this way—?”
Ruth was led away into a perfumed cubicle w hile chattering Italians hurried back and forth, tu rning Signora Verdecchio’s vague instructions into reality. A pretty young girl shampooed her hair, marvelling at Ruth’s good fortune in getting married that very day. And to Mario Verdecchio ! There was no man who had been more sought after! He was rich, good-looking, and doing all that he could to improve the local conditions of his people! How flattered Ruth must feel! How she must die at the very thought of being loved by such a man!
Ruth assured her that she was managing to bear up, though she had to admit to herself that she did feel weak inside if she allowed herself to dwell on the thought of Mario as her husband. Not that he was going to be! But she felt a definite sinking feeling when she thought of his relief when he discovered that she had escaped him.
By the time the master hairdresser himself came into her cubicle she was decidedly depressed. She was as plain as she had ever looked, with her hair dripping around her shoulders and her face innocent even of the modicum of make-up that she customarily wore.
“Mmm. You must look beautiful,” the tall, elegant man said thoughtfully. “It is not easy. No, not easy at all!”
Ruth’s self-confidence took another dive. The man pulled her wet hair over her eyes and back again.
“I like my hair the way it is,” Ruth said crossly.
But the man paid no attention to her. “Ah yes! I have it!” he exclaimed. “Now we shall cut it!”
In a flash he had produced his razor out of his pocket and had taken a wild slash at a lock of her hair. Ruth winced, not daring to look at what he was doing. She had to admit that he was quick, though. In a few seconds most of her hair was lying in piles around her chair.
“Isn’t that short enough?” she asked him timidly.
“It is not so short,” he cajoled her. “It is to give it shape. It has enough curl to make it easy to keep and that is necessary for someone who takes so little trouble. If you have the shape, you have everything!”
He clapped his hands and yet another assistant brought a trolley full of curlers and pins. His fingers flew over Ruth’s head and the style he had chosen for her began to take shape.
“We will have the manicure under the drier,” he told her softly. “The artist who does the make-up will come along later, when we have finished with your hair and you can see the results better. You have something to read?” He handed her a couple of copies of Oggi and departed, leaving her to her lonely thoughts.
It was difficult, though, not to be excited when she saw the final results. Her hair formed a soft frame to her face in a way that did not lessen the character of her face, but somehow made her look more feminine and gave her personality a warmth. It had always been there, she knew, but she had suppressed any ideas she might have had in that direction so that she would look older in the classroom. Now, looking at herself in the glass, she couldn’t help being pleased with th e transformation he had achieved.
“It’s just as well I’m not teaching anyone anything this afternoon ! ” she remarked with wry amusement to Signora Verdecchio who had come to inspect the result.
“It is a step!” the other lady congratulated herself. “We have you—almost beautiful, and you see, already you are less stern! Soon you will feel quite gay that you are a woman!”
She beckoned to the middle-aged woman who was to teach Ruth how to put on her make-up and the two of them went into a huddle together, deciding w hich of Ruth’s features should be brought into prominence, and which rigidly suppressed. But about this,
“At once, signora ! If the signorina will pass this way—?”
Ruth was led away into a perfumed cubicle w hile chattering Italians hurried back and forth, tu rning Signora Verdecchio’s vague instructions into reality. A pretty young girl shampooed her hair, marvelling at Ruth’s good fortune in getting married that very day. And to Mario Verdecchio ! There was no man who had been more sought after! He was rich, good-looking, and doing all that he could to improve the local conditions of his people! How flattered Ruth must feel! How she must die at the very thought of being loved by such a man!
Ruth assured her that she was managing to bear up, though she had to admit to herself that she did feel weak inside if she allowed herself to dwell on the thought of Mario as her husband. Not that he was going to be! But she felt a definite sinking feeling when she thought of his relief when he discovered that she had escaped him.
By the time the master hairdresser himself came into her cubicle she was decidedly depressed. She was as plain as she had ever looked, with her hair dripping around her shoulders and her face innocent even of the modicum of make-up that she customarily wore.
“Mmm. You must look beautiful,” the tall, elegant man said thoughtfully. “It is not easy. No, not easy at all!”
Ruth’s self-confidence took another dive. The man pulled her wet hair over her eyes and back again.
“I like my hair the way it is,” Ruth said crossly.
But the man paid no attention to her. “Ah yes! I have it!” he exclaimed. “Now we shall cut it!”
In a flash he had produced his razor out of his pocket and had taken a wild slash at a lock of her hair. Ruth winced, not daring to look at what he was doing. She had to admit that he was quick, though. In a few seconds most of her hair was lying in piles around her chair.
“Isn’t that short enough?” she asked him timidly.
“It is not so short,” he cajoled her. “It is to give it shape. It has enough curl to make it easy to keep and that is necessary for someone who takes so little trouble. If you have the shape, you have everything!”
He clapped his hands and yet another assistant brought a trolley full of curlers and pins. His fingers flew over Ruth’s head and the style he had chosen for her began to take shape.
“We will have the manicure under the drier,” he told her softly. “The artist who does the make-up will come along later, when we have finished with your hair and you can see the results better. You have something to read?” He handed her a couple of copies of Oggi and departed, leaving her to her lonely thoughts.
It was difficult, though, not to be excited when she saw the final results. Her hair formed a soft frame to her face in a way that did not lessen the character of her face, but somehow made her look more feminine and gave her personality a warmth. It had always been there, she knew, but she had suppressed any ideas she might have had in that direction so that she would look older in the classroom. Now, looking at herself in the glass, she couldn’t help being pleased with th e transformation he had achieved.
“It’s just as well I’m not teaching anyone anything this afternoon ! ” she remarked with wry amusement to Signora Verdecchio who had come to inspect the result.
“It is a step!” the other lady congratulated herself. “We have you—almost beautiful, and you see, already you are less stern! Soon you will feel quite gay that you are a woman!”
She beckoned to the middle-aged woman who was to teach Ruth how to put on her make-up and the two of them went into a huddle together, deciding w hich of Ruth’s features should be brought into prominence, and which rigidly suppressed. But about this,
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