BERNICE BOBS HER HAIR

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

NARRATOR. After dark on Saturday night one could stand on the first tee of the golf course and see the country club windows as a yellow expanse over a very black and wavy ocean. The waves of this ocean, so to speak, were the heads of many curious caddies, a few of the more ingenious chauffeurs, and the golf professional's deaf sister. This was the gallery. The balcony was inside. It consisted of the circle of wicker chairs that lined the wall of the combination clubroom and ballroom. At these Saturday night dances, it was largely feminine; a great babel of middle-aged ladies with sharp eyes and icy hearts behind lorgnettes and large bosoms. The main function of the balcony was critical. It occasionally showed grudging admiration, but never approval, for it is well known among ladies over thirty-five that when the younger set dance in the summertime, it is with the very worst intentions in the world. And if they are not bombarded with stony eyes, stray couples will dance weird barbaric interludes in the corners, and the more popular, more dangerous, girls will sometimes be kissed in the parked limousines of unsuspecting dowagers.

But, after all, this critical circle is not close enough to the stage to see the actors' faces and catch the subtler byplay. It never really appreciates the drama of the shifting, semi-cruel world of adolescence. From sixteen-year-old Otis Ormonde, who has two more years at Hill School, to G. Reece Stoddard, over whose bureau at home hangs a Harvard law diploma; from little Madeleine Hogue, whose hair still feels strange and uncomfortable on top of her head, to Bessie MacRae, who has been the life of the party a little too long-- more than ten years-- the medley is not only the center of the stage but contains the only people capable of getting an unobstructed view of it.

With a flourish and a bang the music stops. A few disappointed stags caught in mid-floor as they had been about to cut in subsided listlessly back to the walls, because this was not like the riotous Christmas dances: these summer hops were considered just pleasantly warm and exciting, where even the younger marrieds rose and performed ancient waltzes and terrifying fox trots to the tolerant amusement of their younger brothers and sisters.

Warren McIntyre, who casually attended Yale, being one of the unfortunate stags, felt in his dinner-coat pocket for a cigarette and strolled out onto the wide, semi-dark veranda, where couples were scattered at tables, filling the lantern-hung night with vague words and hazy laughter. He nodded here and there at the less absorbed and as he passed each couple, some half-forgotten fragment of a story played in his mind, for it was not a large city and every one was Who's Who to everyone else's past. Warren was nineteen and rather pitying with those of his friends who hadn't gone East to college. But, like most boys, he bragged tremendously about the girls of his city when he was away from it, like Marjorie Harvey, who had a fairy-like face and a dazzling, bewildering tongue.

Warren, who had grown up across the street from Marjorie, had long been crazy about her. Sometimes she seemed to reciprocate his feelings with a faint gratitude, but she had tried him by her infallible test and informed him gravely that she did not love him. Her test was that when she was away from him she forgot him and had affairs with other boys. Warren found this discouraging, especially as Marjorie had been making little trips all summer, and for the first two or three days after each arrival home he saw great heaps of mail on the Harvey’s' hall table addressed to her in various masculine handwritings. To make matters worse, all during the month of August she had been visited by her cousin Bernice from Eau Claire, and it seemed impossible to see her alone.

It was always necessary to hunt ‘round and find someone to take care of Bernice. As August waned, this was becoming more and more difficult. Much as Warren worshiped Marjorie, he had to admit that Cousin Bernice was sorta dopeless. She was pretty, with dark hair and high color, but she was no fun on a party. Every Saturday night he danced a long arduous duty dance with her to please Marjorie, but he had never been anything but bored in her company.

MARJORIE. Warren.

NARRATOR. …a soft voice at his elbow broke in upon his thoughts, and he turned to see Marjorie, flushed and radiant as usual. She laid a hand on his shoulder and a glow settled almost imperceptibly over him.

MARJORIE. Warren, do something for me: dance with Bernice. She's been stuck with little Otis Ormonde for almost an hour.

NARRATOR. Warren's glow faded.

WARREN. Why, sure.

NARRATOR. …He answered half-heartedly.

MARJORIE. You don't mind, do you? I'll see that you don't get stuck.

WARREN. 'Sall right.

NARRATOR. Marjorie smiled-- that smile that was thanks enough.

MARJORIE. You're an angel, and I'm obliged loads.

NARRATOR. With a sigh, the angel glanced round the veranda, but Bernice and Otis were not in sight. He wandered back inside, and there in front of the women's dressing-room he found Otis in the center of a group of young men who were convulsed with laughter.

OTIS. She's gone in to fix her hair. I'm waiting to dance another hour with her.

OTIS. Why don't some of you cut in? She likes more variety.

G. REECE. Why, Otis, you've just barely got used to her.

WARREN. Never mind, Otis. I'm relieving you this time.

NARRATOR. No matter how beautiful or brilliant a girl may be, the reputation of not being frequently cut in on makes her position at a dance unfortunate. Perhaps boys prefer her company to that of the butterflies with whom they dance a dozen times an evening, but youth in this jazz-nourished generation is temperamentally restless, and the idea of foxtrotting more than one full fox trot with the same girl is distasteful, not to say odious. When it comes to several dances and the intermissions between, she can be quite sure that a young man, once relieved, will never tread on her wayward toes again. Warren danced the next full dance with Bernice, and finally, thankful for the intermission, he led her to a table on the veranda. There was a moment's silence while she did unimpressive things with her fan.

BERNICE. It's hotter here than in Eau Claire.

NARRATOR. Warren stifled a sigh and nodded. It might be for all he knew or cared. He wondered idly whether she was a poor conversationalist because she got no attention or got no attention because she was a poor conversationalist.

WARREN. You going to be here much longer?

BERNICE. Another week,

NARRATOR. …she answered, and stared at him as if to lunge at his next remark when it left his lips. Warren fidgeted. Then with a sudden charitable impulse, he decided to try part of his line on her. He turned and looked at her eyes.

WARREN. You've got an awfully kissable mouth.

NARRATOR. This was a remark that he sometimes made to girls at college proms when they were talking in just such half-dark as this. Bernice distinctly jumped. She turned an ungraceful red and became clumsy with her fan. No one had ever made such a remark to her before.

BERNICE. Fresh!

NARRATOR. The word had slipped out before she realized it, and she bit her lip. Too late, she decided to be amused, and offered him a flustered smile. Warren was annoyed. Though not accustomed to have that remark taken seriously, still it usually provoked a laugh or a paragraph of sentimental banter. And he hated to be called fresh, except in a joking way. His charitable impulse died and he switched the topic. A faint regret mingled with her relief as the subject changed. Men did not talk to Bernice about kissable mouths, but she knew that they talked in some such way to other girls. Bernice was merely nervous.

When Marjorie and Bernice reached home at half after midnight they said good night at the top of the stairs. Though cousins, they were not intimates. As a matter of fact, Marjorie had no female intimates-- she considered girls stupid. Bernice on the contrary, all through this parent-arranged visit, had rather longed to exchange those confidences flavored with giggles and tears that she considered an indispensable factor in all feminine intercourse. But in this respect she found Marjorie rather cold; felt somehow the same difficulty in talking to her that she had in talking to men. Marjorie never giggled, was never frightened, seldom embarrassed, and in fact had very few of the qualities which Bernice considered appropriately and blessedly feminine.

As Bernice busied herself with toothbrush and paste this night she wondered for the hundredth time why she never had any attention when she was away from home. That her family were the wealthiest in Eau Claire; that her mother entertained tremendously, gave little dinners for her daughter before all dances and bought her a car of her own to drive ‘round in, never occurred to her as factors in her hometown social success. Like most girls she had been brought up on novels in which the female was beloved because of certain mysterious womanly qualities- always mentioned but never displayed.

Bernice felt a vague pain that she was not at present engaged in being popular. She did not know that had it not been for Marjorie's campaigning she would have danced the entire evening with one man; but she knew that even in Eau Claire, other girls with less position and less pulchritude were given a much bigger rush. She attributed this to something subtly unscrupulous in those girls. It had never worried her, and if it had, her mother would have assured her that the other girls cheapened themselves and that men really respected girls like Bernice.

She turned out the light in her bathroom, and on an impulse decided to go in and chat for a moment with her Aunt Josephine, whose light was still on. Her soft slippers bore her noiselessly down the carpeted hall, but hearing voices inside she stopped near the partly opened door. Then she caught her own name, and without any definite intention of eavesdropping lingered-- and the thread of the conversation going on inside pierced her consciousness sharply as if it had been drawn through with a needle.

MARJORIE. She's absolutely hopeless!

NARRATOR. It was Marjorie's voice.

MARJORIE. Oh, I know what you're going to say! So many people have told you how pretty and sweet she is. What of it? She has a bum time. Men don't like her.

AUNT JOSEPHINE. What's a little cheap popularity?

MARJORIE. It's everything when you're eighteen. I've done my best. I've been polite and I've made men dance with her, but they just won't stand being bored. When I think of that gorgeous coloring wasted on such a ninny, and think what Martha Carey could do with it--oh!

AUNT JOSEPHINE. There's no courtesy these days.

NARRATOR. Mrs. Harvey's voice implied that modern situations were too much for her. When she was a girl all young ladies who belonged to nice families had glorious times.

MARJORIE. Well, no girl can permanently bolster up a lame-duck visitor, because these days it's every girl for herself. I've even tried to drop her hints about clothes and things, and she's given me the funniest looks. She's sensitive enough to know she's not getting away with much, but I'll bet she consoles herself by thinking that she's very virtuous and that I'm too gay and fickle and will come to a bad end. All unpopular girls think that way. Sour grapes! Sarah Hopkins refers to Genevieve and Roberta and me as gardenia girls! I'll bet she'd give ten years of her life and her European education to be a gardenia girl and have three or four men in love with her and be cut in on every few feet at dances.

AUNT JOSEPHINE. It seems to me that you ought to be able to do something for Bernice. I know she's not very vivacious.

MARJORIE. Vivacious! Good grief! I've never heard her say anything to a boy except that it's hot or the floor's crowded or that she's going to school in New York next year. Sometimes she asks them what kind of car they have and tells them the kind she has. Thrilling!

AUNT JOSEPHINE. All I know is that other girls not half so sweet and attractive get partners. Martha Carey, for instance, is stout and loud, and her mother is distinctly common. Roberta Dillon is so thin this year that she looks as though Arizona were the place for her. She is dancing herself to death.

MARJORIE. But, mother, Martha is cheerful and awfully witty and an awfully slick girl, and Roberta's a marvelous dancer. She's been popular for ages! I think it's that crazy Indian blood in Bernice. Maybe she's a reversion to type. Indian women all just sat round and never said anything.

AUNT JOSEPHINE. Go to bed, you silly child. I wouldn't have told you that if I'd thought you were going to remember it. And I think most of your ideas are perfectly idiotic.

NARRATOR. There was a silence, while Marjorie considered whether or not convincing her mother was worth the trouble. People over forty can seldom be permanently convinced of anything. At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide. Having decided this, Marjorie said good night. When she came out into the hall it was quite empty.

While Marjorie was breakfasting late next day Bernice came into the room with a rather formal good morning, sat down opposite, stared intently over and slightly moistened her lips.

MARJORIE. What's on your mind?

NARRATOR. Bernice paused before she threw her hand-grenade.

BERNICE. I heard what you said about me to your mother last night.

NARRATOR. Marjorie was startled, but she showed only a faintly heightened color and her voice was quite even when she spoke.

MARJORIE. Where were you?

BERNICE. In the hall. I didn't mean to listen… at first.

NARRATOR. After an involuntary look of contempt, Marjorie dropped her eyes and became very interested in balancing a stray cornflake on her finger.

BERNICE. I guess I'd better go back to Eau Claire if I'm such a nuisance.

NARRATOR. Bernice's lower lip was trembling violently and she continued on a wavering note:

BERNICE. I've tried to be nice, and I've been first neglected and then insulted. No one ever visited me and got such treatment. But I'm in the way, I see. I'm a drag on you. Your friends don't like me.

NARRATOR. She paused, and then remembered another one of her grievances.

BERNICE. Of course I was furious last week when you tried to hint to me that that dress was unbecoming. Don't you think I know how to dress myself?

MARJORIE. No.

BERNICE. What?

MARJORIE. I didn't hint anything. I said, as I remember, that it was better to wear a becoming dress three times straight than to alternate it with two frights.

BERNICE. Do you think that was a very nice thing to say?

MARJORIE. I wasn't trying to be nice. When do you want to go?

BERNICE. Oh!

NARRATOR. It was a little half-cry. Marjorie looked up in surprise.

MARJORIE. Didn't you say you were going?

BERNICE. Yes, but----

MARJORIE. ----Oh, you were only bluffing!

NARRATOR. They stared at each other across the breakfast table for a moment. Misty waves were passing before Bernice's eyes, while Marjorie's face wore that rather hard expression that she used when slightly intoxicated undergraduates were making love to her.

MARJORIE. So you were bluffing.

NARRATOR. …She repeated as if it were what she might have expected. Bernice admitted it by bursting into tears. Marjorie's eyes showed boredom.

BERNICE. You're my cousin. I'm v-v-visiting you. I was to stay a month, and if I go home my mother will know and she'll wah-wonder-

NARRATOR. Marjorie waited until the shower of broken words collapsed into little sniffles.

MARJORIE. I'll give you my month's allowance and you can spend this last week anywhere you want. There's a very nice hotel--

NARRATOR. Bernice's sobs rose to a flute note, and rising of a sudden, she fled from the room. An hour later, while Marjorie was in the library absorbed in composing one of those non-committal, marvelously elusive letters that only a young girl can write, Bernice reappeared, very red-eyed and consciously calm. She cast no glance at Marjorie but took a book at random from the shelf and sat down as if to read. Marjorie seemed absorbed in her letter and continued writing. When the clock showed noon, Bernice closed her book with a snap.

BERNICE. I suppose I'd better get my railroad ticket.

NARRATOR. This was not the beginning of the speech she had rehearsed upstairs, but as Marjorie was not getting her cues--wasn't urging her to be reasonable; it's all a mistake-- it was the best opening she could muster.

MARJORIE. Just wait till I finish this letter. I want to get it off in the next mail.

NARRATOR. After another minute, during which her pen scratched busily, she turned ‘round and relaxed with an air of "at your service." Again, Bernice had to speak.

BERNICE. Do you want me to go home?

MARJORIE. Well, I suppose if you're not having a good time you'd better go. No use being miserable.

BERNICE. Do you think you've treated me very well?

MARJORIE. I've done my best. You're rather hard material to work with.

NARRATOR. The lids of Bernice's eyes reddened.

BERNICE. I think you're hard and selfish, and you haven't a feminine quality in you.

MARJORIE. Oh, my Lord! You little nut! Girls like you are responsible for all the tiresome colorless marriages; all those ghastly inefficiencies that pass as feminine qualities. What a blow it must be when a man with imagination marries the beautiful bundle of clothes that he's been building ideals ‘round, and finds that she's just a weak, whining, cowardly mass of affectations!

NARRATOR. Bernice's mouth had slipped half-open.

MARJORIE. The womanly woman! Her whole early life is occupied in whining criticisms of girls like me who really do have a good time.

NARRATOR. Bernice's jaw descended farther as Marjorie's voice rose.

MARJORIE. There's some excuse for an ugly girl whining. If I'd been irretrievably ugly I'd never have forgiven my parents for bringing me into the world. But you're starting life without any handicap--

NARRATOR. Marjorie's little fist clinched.

MARJORIE. If you expect me to weep with you you'll be disappointed. Go or stay, just as you like.

NARRATOR. And picking up her letters she left the room. Bernice claimed a headache and failed to appear at lunch. They had a matinée date for the afternoon, but the headache persisting, Marjorie made explanation to a not very downcast boy. But when she returned late in the afternoon she found Bernice with a strangely set face waiting for her in her bedroom.

BERNICE. I've decided that maybe you're right about things--possibly not. But if you'll tell me why your friends aren't--aren't interested in me I'll see if I can do what you want me to.

MARJORIE. Do you mean it?

BERNICE. Yes.

MARJORIE. Without reservations? Will you do exactly what I say?

BERNICE. Well, I--

MARJORIE. --Well nothing! Will you do exactly as I say?

BERNICE. If they're sensible things.

MARJORIE. They're not! You're no case for sensible things.

BERNICE. Are you going to make-- to recommend--?

MARJORIE. --Yes, everything. If I tell you to take boxing lessons you'll have to do it. Write home and tell your mother you're going to stay another two weeks.

BERNICE. If you'll tell me why--

MARJORIE. --All right! I'll just give you a few examples now. First, you have no ease of manner. Why? Because you're never sure about your personal appearance. When a girl feels that she's perfectly groomed and dressed she can forget that part of her. That's charm. The more parts of yourself you can afford to forget the more charm you have.

BERNICE. Don't I look all right?

MARJORIE. No; for instance, you never take care of your eyebrows. They're black and lustrous, but by leaving them straggly they're a blemish. They'd be beautiful if you'd take care of them in one-tenth the time you take doing nothing. You're going to brush them so that they'll grow straight.

NARRATOR. Bernice raised the brows in question.

BERNICE. Do you mean to say that men notice eyebrows?

MARJORIE. Yes, subconsciously. And when you go home you ought to have your teeth straightened a little. It's almost imperceptible… still…

BERNICE. But I thought that you despised little dainty feminine things like that.

MARJORIE. I hate dainty minds. But a girl has to be dainty in person. If she looks like a million dollars she can talk about Russia, ping-pong, or the League of Nations and get away with it.

BERNICE. What else?

MARJORIE. Oh, I'm just beginning! There's your dancing.

BERNICE. Don't I dance all right?

MARJORIE. No, you don't-- you lean on a man; yes, you do-- ever so slightly. I noticed it when we were dancing together yesterday. And you dance standing up straight instead of bending over a little. Probably some old lady on the sideline once told you that you looked so dignified that way. But except with a very small girl it's much harder on the man, and he's the one that counts.

BERNICE. Go on.

NARRATOR. Bernice's brain was reeling.

MARJORIE. Well, you've got to learn to be nice to men who are sad birds. You look as if you'd been insulted whenever you're thrown with any except the most popular boys. Why, Bernice, I'm cut in on every few feet-- and who does most of it? Why, those very sad birds. No girl can afford to neglect them. They're the big part of any crowd. Young boys too shy to talk are the very best conversational practice. Clumsy boys are the best dancing practice. If you can follow them and yet look graceful you can follow a baby tank across a barb-wire skyscraper.

NARRATOR. Bernice sighed profoundly, but Marjorie was not through.

MARJORIE. If you go to a dance and really amuse, say, three sad birds that dance with you; if you talk so well to them that they forget they're stuck with you, you've done something. They'll come back next time, and gradually so many sad birds will dance with you that the attractive boys will see there's no danger of being stuck-- then they'll dance with you.

BERNICE. I think I’m beginning to see.

MARJORIE. And finally, poise and charm will just come. You'll wake up some morning knowing you've attained it, and men will know it too.

BERNICE. Nobody's ever talked to me like this before, and I feel sort of startled.

NARRATOR. Marjorie made no answer but gazed pensively at her own image in the mirror.

BERNICE. You're a peach to help me.

NARRATOR. Still Marjorie did not answer, and Bernice thought she had seemed too grateful.

BERNICE. I know you don't like sentiment…

NARRATOR. Marjorie turned to her quickly.

MARJORIE. Oh, I wasn't thinking about that. I was considering whether we hadn't better bob your hair.

NARRATOR. On the following Wednesday evening there was a dinner dance at the country club. When the guests strolled in Bernice found her placecard with a slight feeling of irritation. Though at her right sat G. Reece Stoddard, a most desirable and distinguished young bachelor, the all-important left held only Charley Paulson. Charley lacked height, beauty, and social shrewdness, and in her new enlightenment, Bernice decided that his only qualification to be her partner was that he had never been stuck with her. But this feeling of irritation left with the last of the soup-plates, and Marjorie's specific instruction came to her. Swallowing her pride, she turned to Charley Paulson and plunged.

BERNICE. Do you think I ought to bob my hair, Mr. Charley Paulson?

NARRATOR. Charley looked up in surprise.

CHARLEY. Why?

BERNICE. Because I'm considering it. It's such a sure and easy way of attracting attention.

NARRATOR. Charley smiled pleasantly. He could not know this had been rehearsed. He replied that he didn't know much about bobbed hair. But Bernice was there to tell him.

BERNICE. I want to be a society vampire,

NARRATOR. …and went on to inform him that bobbed hair was the necessary prelude. She added that she wanted to ask his advice, because she had heard he was so critical about girls. Charley, who knew as much about the psychology of women as he did of the mental states of Buddhist contemplatives, felt vaguely flattered.

BERNICE. So I've decided that early next week I'm going to go down to the Sevier Hotel barbershop, sit in the first chair, and get my hair bobbed.

NARRATOR. She faltered, noticing that the people near her had paused in their conversation and were listening; but after a confused second, finished her paragraph to the vicinity at large.

BERNICE. Of course I'm charging admission, but if you'll all come down and encourage me I'll issue passes for the inside seats.

NARRATOR. There was a ripple of appreciative laughter, and under cover of it G. Reece Stoddard leaned over quickly and said close to her ear:

G. REECE. I'll take a box right now.

NARRATOR. She met his eyes and smiled as if he had said something surpassingly brilliant.

G. REECE. Do you believe in bobbed hair?

BERNICE. I think it's unmoral. But, of course, you've either got to amuse people or feed 'em or shock 'em.

NARRATOR. Marjorie had culled this from Oscar Wilde. It was greeted with a ripple of laughter from the men and a series of quick, intent looks from the girls. And then as though she had said nothing of wit or moment Bernice turned again to Charley and spoke confidentially in his ear.

BERNICE. I want to ask your opinion of several people. I imagine you're a wonderful judge of character.

NARRATOR. Charley paid her a subtle compliment by overturning his water.

Two hours later, while Warren McIntyre was standing passively in the stag line abstractedly watching the dancers and wondering whither and with whom Marjorie had disappeared, an unrelated perception began to creep slowly upon him-- a perception that Bernice, cousin to Marjorie, had been cut in on several times in the past five minutes. He closed his eyes, opened them and looked again. Several minutes back she had been dancing with a visiting boy, a matter easily accounted for; a visiting boy would know no better. But now she was dancing with someone else, and there was Charley Paulson headed for her with enthusiastic determination in his eye. Funny: Charley seldom danced with more than three girls an evening. Warren was distinctly surprised when-- the exchange having been effected-- the man relieved proved to be none other than G. Reece Stoddard himself. And G. Reece seemed not at all jubilant at being relieved.

Next time Bernice danced near, Warren regarded her intently. Yes, she was pretty, distinctly pretty; and tonight her face seemed really vivacious. She had that look that no woman, however histrionically proficient, can successfully counterfeit; she looked as if she were having a good time. He liked the way she had her hair arranged, and her dress was becoming-- a dark red that set off her shadowy eyes and high coloring. He remembered that he had thought her pretty when she first came to town, before he had realized that she was dull. Too bad she was dull-- …certainly pretty though. His thoughts zigzagged back to Marjorie.

This disappearance would be like other disappearances. When she reappeared, he would demand where she had been-- would be told emphatically that it was none of his business. What a pity she was so sure of him! She basked in the knowledge that no other girl in town interested him; she defied him to fall in love with Genevieve or Roberta.

Warren sighed. The way to Marjorie's affections was a labyrinth indeed. He looked up. Bernice was again dancing with the visiting boy. Half unconsciously he took a step out from the stag line in her direction, and hesitated. Then he said to himself that it was charity. He walked toward her… and collided suddenly with G. Reece Stoddard.

WARREN. Pardon me.

NARRATOR. But G. Reece had not stopped to apologize. He had again cut in on Bernice.

That night at one o'clock, Marjorie, with one hand on the light switch in the hall, turned to take a last look at Bernice's sparkling eyes.

MARJORIE. So it worked?

BERNICE. Oh, Marjorie, yes!

MARJORIE. I saw you were having a gay time.

BERNICE. I was! The only trouble was that about midnight I ran short of talk. I had to repeat myself-- with different men of course. I hope they won't compare notes.

MARJORIE. Men don't and it wouldn't matter if they did-- they'd think you were even trickier.

NARRATOR. She snapped out the light, and as they started up the stairs Bernice grasped the banister thankfully. For the first time in her life she had been danced tired.

MARJORIE. You see: one man sees another man cut in and he thinks there must be something there. Well, we'll fix up some new stuff tomorrow. Good night.

BERNICE. Good night.

NARRATOR. As Bernice took down her hair she passed the evening before her in review. She had followed instructions exactly. Even when Charley Paulson cut in for the eighth time she had simulated delight and had apparently been both interested and flattered. She had not talked about the weather or Eau Claire or automobiles or her school, but had confided her conversation to me, you, and us. But a few minutes before she fell asleep a rebellious thought was churning drowsily in her brain-- after all, it was she who had done it. Marjorie, to be sure, had given her her conversation, but then Marjorie got much of her conversation out of things she read. Bernice had bought the red dress, though she had never valued it highly before Marjorie dug it out of her trunk-- and her own voice had said the words, her own lips had smiled, her own feet had danced. Marjorie nice girl-- vain, though-- nice evening-- nice boys --like Warren-- Warren--Warren--what's-his-name—Warren……… She fell asleep.

To Bernice the next week was a revelation. With the feeling that people really enjoyed looking at her and listening to her came the foundation of self-confidence. Little Otis Ormonde pleaded off from a trip East and elected instead to follow her with a puppy-like devotion, to the amusement of his crowd and to the irritation of G. Reece Stoddard, several of whose afternoon calls, Otis completely ruined by the disgusting tenderness of the glances he bent on Bernice. Of all Bernice's conversation perhaps the best known and most universally approved was the line about the bobbing of her hair.

OTIS. Oh, Bernice, when you goin' to get the hair bobbed?

BERNICE. Day after tomorrow maybe. Will you come and see me? Because I'm counting on you, Otis, you know.

OTIS. Will I? You know!

NARRATOR. But perhaps the most significant symbol of her success was the gray car of the hypercritical Warren McIntyre, parked daily in front of the Harvey house. At first the parlor maid was distinctly startled when he asked for Bernice instead of Marjorie; after a week of it she told the cook that Miss Bernice had got ahold of Miss Marjorie's best fella. And Miss Bernice had. Perhaps it began with Warren's desire to rouse jealousy in Marjorie; perhaps it was the familiar though unrecognized strain of Marjorie in Bernice's conversation; perhaps it was both of these and something of sincere attraction besides. But somehow the collective mind of the younger set knew within a week that Marjorie's most reliable beau had made an amazing face-about and was giving an indisputable rush to Marjorie's guest. The question of the moment was how Marjorie would take it.

Marjorie only laughed. She said she was mighty glad that Warren had at last found someone who appreciated him. So the younger set laughed, too, and guessed that Marjorie didn't care and let it go at that. One afternoon when there were only three days left of her visit, Bernice was waiting in the hall for Warren, with whom she was going to a bridge party. She was in rather a blissful mood, when Marjorie-- also bound for the party-- appeared beside her and began casually to adjust her hat in the mirror. Bernice was utterly unprepared for anything in the nature of a clash; Marjorie did her work very coldly and succinctly in three sentences.

MARJORIE. You may as well get Warren out of your head.

BERNICE. What?

MARJORIE. You may as well stop making a fool of yourself over Warren McIntyre. He doesn't care a snap of his fingers about you.

NARRATOR. For a tense moment they regarded each other-- Marjorie scornful, aloof; Bernice astounded, half-angry, half-afraid. Then two cars drove up in front of the house and there was a riotous honking. Both of them gasped faintly, turned, and side by side hurried out. All through the bridge party Bernice strove in vain to master a rising uneasiness. She had offended Marjorie, the sphinx of sphinxes. With the most wholesome and innocent intentions in the world, she had stolen Marjorie's property. She felt suddenly and horribly guilty. After the bridge game, when they sat in an informal circle and the conversation became general, the storm gradually broke. G. Reece Stoddard and Little Otis Ormonde inadvertently precipitated it.

G. REECE. When you going back to kindergarten, Otis?

OTIS. Me? Day Bernice gets her hair bobbed.

MARJORIE. Then your education's over. That's only a bluff of hers. I should think you'd have realized.

OTIS. That a fact?

NARRATOR. Bernice's ears burned as she tried to think up an effectual comeback. In the face of this direct attack her imagination was paralyzed.

MARJORIE. There's a lot of bluffs in the world. I should think you'd be wise enough to know that, Otis.

OTIS. Well, maybe so. But gee! With a line like Bernice's--

MARJORIE. Really?

OTIS. What's her latest bon mot?

NARRATOR. No one seemed to know. In fact, Bernice, having trifled with her muse's beau, had said nothing memorable of late.

CHARLEY. Was that really all a line?

NARRATOR. Charley Paulson inquired. Bernice hesitated. She felt that wit in some form was demanded of her, but under her cousin's suddenly frigid eyes she was completely incapacitated.

BERNICE. I don't know.

MARJORIE. Splush! Admit it!

NARRATOR. Bernice saw that Warren's eyes had left a ukulele he had been tinkering with and were fixed on her questioningly.

BERNICE. Oh, I don't know!

NARRATOR. Her cheeks were glowing.

MARJORIE. Splush!

OTIS. Come through, Bernice. Tell her where to get off.

NARRATOR. Bernice looked round again-- she seemed unable to get away from Warren's eyes.

BERNICE. I like bobbed hair, and I intend to bob mine.

MARJORIE. When?

BERNICE. Any time.

CHARLEY. No time like the present.

OTIS. Good stuff! We'll have a summer bobbing party. Sevier Hotel barbershop, I think you said.

NARRATOR. In an instant all were on their feet. Bernice's heart throbbed violently.

BERNICE. What?

NARRATOR. Out of the group came Marjorie's voice, very clear and contemptuous.

MARJORIE. Don't worry-- she'll back out!

OTIS. Come on, Bernice!

NARRATOR. Four eyes-- Warren's and Marjorie's-- stared at her, challenged her, defied her. For another second she wavered wildly.

BERNICE. All right. I don't care if I do.

NARRATOR. An eternity of minutes later, riding downtown through the late afternoon beside Warren, the others following in Otis’s car close behind, Bernice had all the sensations of Marie Antoinette bound for the guillotine. Vaguely she wondered why she did not cry out that it was all a mistake. It was all she could do to keep from clutching her hair with both hands to protect it from the suddenly hostile world. Yet she did neither. Even the thought of her mother was no deterrent now. This was the test supreme of her sportsmanship; her right to walk unchallenged in the starry heaven of popular girls.

Warren was moodily silent, and when they came to the hotel he drew up at the curb and nodded to Bernice to precede him out. Otis’s car emptied a laughing crowd into the shop, which presented two bold plate-glass windows to the street. Bernice stood on the curb and looked at the sign: Sevier Barbershop. It was a guillotine indeed, and the hangman was the first barber, who, attired in a white coat and smoking a cigarette, leaned nonchalantly against the first chair. He must have heard of her; he must have been waiting all week, smoking eternal cigarettes beside that portentous, too-often mentioned first chair. Would they blindfold her? No, but they would tie a white cloth round her neck lest any of her blood-- nonsense-- hair-- should get on her clothes.

WARREN. All right, Bernice.

NARRATOR. With her chin in the air she crossed the sidewalk, pushed open the swinging screen-door, and giving not a glance to the uproarious, riotous row that occupied the waiting bench, went up to the first barber.

BERNICE. I want you to bob my hair.

NARRATOR. The barber's mouth slid somewhat open. His cigarette dropped to the floor.

NARRATOR. Refusing further preliminaries, Bernice took her seat on high. A man in the chair next to her turned on his side and gave her a glance, half lather, half amazement. Another barber started and spoiled little Willy Schuneman's monthly haircut. Mr. O'Reilly in the last chair grunted and swore musically in ancient Gaelic as a razor bit into his cheek. Outside a passer-by stopped and stared; a couple joined him; half a dozen small boys' noses sprang into life, flattened against the glass; and snatches of conversation borne on the summer breeze drifted in through the screen-door.

But Bernice saw nothing, heard nothing. Her only living sense told her that this man in the white coat had removed one tortoise-shell comb and then another; that his fingers were fumbling clumsily with unfamiliar hairpins; that this hair, this wonderful hair of hers, was going-- she would never again feel its long voluptuous pull as it hung in a dark-brown glory down her back. For a second she was near breaking down, and then the picture before her swam mechanically into her vision: Marjorie's mouth curling in a faint ironic smile as if to say:

MARJORIE. Give up and get down! You tried to buck me and I called your bluff. You see you haven't got a prayer.

NARRATOR. And some last energy rose up in Bernice, for she clinched her hands under the white cloth, and there was a curious narrowing of her eyes that Marjorie remarked on to someone long afterward. Twenty minutes later the barber swung her round to face the mirror, and she flinched at the full extent of the damage that had been wrought. Her hair was not curly, and now it lay in lank lifeless blocks on both sides of her suddenly pale face. It was ugly as sin-- she had known it would be ugly as sin. Her face's chief charm had been a Madonna-like simplicity. Now that was gone and she was… well, frightfully mediocre. As she climbed down from the chair she tried to smile— and failed miserably. She saw two of the boys exchange glances; noticed Marjorie's mouth curved in attenuated mockery-- and that Warren's eyes were suddenly very cold.

BERNICE. I've done it.

WARREN. Yes, you've… done it.

BERNICE. Do you like it?

NARRATOR. There was a half-hearted "Sure" from two or three voices, another awkward pause, and then Marjorie turned swiftly and with serpent-like intensity to Warren.

MARJORIE. Would you mind running me down to the cleaners? I've got to get a dress there before supper. Otis is driving right home and he can take the others.

NARRATOR. Warren stared abstractedly at some infinite speck out the window. Then for an instant his eyes rested coldly on Bernice before they turned to Marjorie.

WARREN. Be glad to.

NARRATOR. Bernice did not fully realize the outrageous trap that had been set for her until she met her aunt's amazed glance just before dinner.

AUNT JOSEPHINE. Why, Bernice!

BERNICE. I've bobbed it, Aunt Josephine.

AUNT JOSEPHINE. Why, child!

BERNICE. Do you like it?

AUNT JOSEPHINE. Why, Bernice!

BERNICE. I suppose I've shocked you.

AUNT JOSEPHINE. No, but you should have waited until after tomorrow’s dance-- you should have waited if you wanted to do that.

BERNICE. It was sudden, Aunt Josephine. I'm sorry.

AUNT JOSEPHINE. Oh, Bernice, what will your mother say? She'll think I let you do it.

BERNICE. I'm sorry.

NARRATOR. Dinner was an agony. She had made a hasty attempt with a curling-iron, and burned her finger and much hair. She could see that her aunt was both worried and grieved, and her uncle kept saying, “Well, I'll be darned!” over and over in a hurt and faintly hostile tone. And Marjorie sat very quietly, entrenched behind a faint smile, a faintly mocking smile. Somehow Bernice got through the evening. Three boys called; Marjorie disappeared with one of them, and Bernice made a listless unsuccessful attempt to entertain the two others-- sighed thankfully as she climbed the stairs to her room at half past ten. What a day! When she had undressed for the night the door opened and Marjorie came in.

MARJORIE. Bernice, I'm awfully sorry about the dance. I'll give you my word of honor I'd forgotten all about it.

BERNICE. ‘Sall right.

NARRATOR. Standing before the mirror she passed her comb slowly through her short hair.

MARJORIE. I'll take you downtown tomorrow, and the hairdresser'll fix it so you'll look slick. I didn't imagine you'd go through with it. I'm really mighty sorry.

BERNICE. Oh, 'sall right.

MARJORIE. Still it's your last night, so I suppose it won't matter much.

NARRATOR. Then Bernice winced as Marjorie tossed her own hair over her shoulders and began to twist it slowly into two long blonde braids until, in her cream-colored negligée, she looked like a delicate painting of some Saxon princess. Fascinated, Bernice watched the braids grow. Heavy and luxurious they were, moving under the supple fingers like restive snakes-- and to Bernice remained this relic and the curling iron and a tomorrow full of eyes. She sat down suddenly before the mirror, biting the inside of her cheek.

BERNICE. I like it, I think it'll be becoming.

NARRATOR. Marjorie smiled.

MARJORIE. It looks all right. For heaven's sake, don't let it worry you!

BERNICE. I won't.

MARJORIE. Good night, Bernice.

NARRATOR. But as the door closed something snapped within Bernice. She sprang dynamically to her feet, clinching her hands, then swiftly and noiselessly crossed over to her bed and from underneath it dragged out her suitcase. Into it she tossed toilet articles and a change of clothing. Then she turned to her trunk and quickly dumped in two drawerfuls of lingerie and summer dresses. She moved quietly, but with deadly efficiency, and in three-quarters of an hour her trunk was locked and strapped and she was fully dressed in a becoming new traveling suit that Marjorie had helped her pick out. Sitting down at her desk she wrote a short note to her Aunt Josephine, in which she briefly outlined her reasons for going. She sealed it, addressed it, and laid it on her pillow. She glanced at her watch. The train left at one, and she knew that if she walked down to the Marborough Hotel two blocks away she could easily get a taxicab.

Suddenly she drew in her breath sharply and an expression flashed into her eyes that a practiced character reader might have connected vaguely with the set look she had worn in the barber's chair-- somehow a development of it. It was quite a new look for Bernice and it carried consequences. She went stealthily to the bureau, picked up an item that lay there, and turning out all the lights stood quietly until her eyes became accustomed to the darkness.

Softly, she pushed open the door to Marjorie's room. She heard the quiet, even breathing of an untroubled conscience asleep. She was by the bedside now, very deliberate and calm. She acted swiftly. Bending over, she found one of the braids of Marjorie's hair, followed it up with her hand to the point nearest the head, and then holding with a little slack so that the sleeper would feel no pull, she reached down with the shears and severed it. With the pigtail in her hand she held her breath. Marjorie had muttered something in her sleep. Bernice deftly amputated the other braid, paused for an instant, and then flitted swiftly and silently back to her own room.

Downstairs she opened the big front door, closed it carefully behind her, and feeling oddly happy and exuberant stepped off the porch into the moonlight, swinging her heavy grip like a shopping-bag. After a minute's brisk walk, she discovered that her left hand still held the two blonde braids. She laughed unexpectedly. She was passing Warren's house now, and on the impulse, she set down her baggage, and swinging the braids like pieces of rope flung them at the wooden porch, where they landed with a slight thud. She laughed again, no longer restraining herself.

BERNICE. Hah! Scalp the selfish thing!

NARRATOR. Then picking up her suitcase she set off at a half-run down the moonlit street.