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The competition was in less
than ten days.
Becky was getting nervous,
and put herself in a mood to moan and groan.
She sat on the couch and
fidgeted with an embroidered cushion. "My teeth are so crooked," she
said. "And my belly sticks out." Mr. Freeman just listened and uh-huhed,
nodding in agreement with every complaint.
"I have nothing to wear to
the competition."
"Uh-huh."
"My shoes are ugly."
"Uh-huh."
"I have a zit on my nose."
"Uh-huh."
"My hair is so gross, I
hate it."
"I could cut your hair,
Becky," Mr. Freeman finally said. "If you wanted me to," he added,
almost inaudibly.
"Cut my hair?" Becky put the
cushion down. "How would you do that?"
"With a comb and a pair of
scissors," he replied with a chuckle.
Becky brought her hands to
her hair and pulled on it. "But you're not a hairdresser."
"I cut Agatha's hair a few
hundred times," he said, still patient.
"Her hair was not like
mine."
"No denying that."
"Hers was thick and curly,
you told me."
'I did."
"Mine is fine and scraggly."
"Sure is."
"Maybe if I used some gel I
won't need a haircut."
"Maybe."
"If you pulled my hair it
would hurt."
"It would."
"You might poke me in the
eye with the scissors."
'I might."
"If you got it wrong my hair
would look worse."
'You bet."
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