Chapter 25 The Problem of My Hair
The Problem of My Hair
We have found a solution to my poor burnt hair. Well, after a fashion. We’ve done something, anyway.
After she summoned me, Georgiana and I sat in front of the glass for hours, trying to conceal it.
Since my hair is so thick, I thought perhaps I could just twist it up as usual and conceal that two-thirds of it was now gone.
But it was no good. My braid had not come off cleanly or evenly—on the left side it still hung past my shoulders, but then it slanted upward and the right side barely covered my ear.
No amount of pinning or adorning would keep the mutilated lock from springing free—and even if it could, what would people think if I started wearing a large bunch of silk flowers over my right ear all the time?
It was singed, too. Nothing we could do got the smell—a combination of smoke and rotten eggs—out.
“It’s no good,” Georgiana announced suddenly, letting my hair fall out of the complicated twist she’d been attempting. “It will have to come off.” And without waiting for a response, she gathered what remained of my hair at the nape of my neck, squared it up, and chopped it off.
For a moment I could not breathe. I do not think I am terribly vain, but I do think I have nice hair—it is very thick and shiny, and unless it is about to rain, it lies elegantly—and now it was gone.
“Georgiana!” I croaked. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Hush.” She had narrowed her eyes and was kneeling in front of me, the tip of her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth. “It’s terribly fashionable, you know. All the most daring ladies of the ton have it.”
“Have what?”
“The Lady Caro crop.” Snip. Another four-inch piece of hair drifted into my lap. “The French call it à la guillotine .”
An apt name, since the guillotine was where Mamma would probably send me when she saw it.
Why did I let her do it? I am still not sure.
My whole life I have hated it when people fussed with my hair.
Georgiana, clumsy as a bear cub and hardly reliable in matters of taste, was the last person I ought to let near it.
But she did know about the ton —if she said that the finest women in the nation were going about this way, she must be right.
Besides, I rather liked the feeling of her fingers threading through my hair.
Little tingles seemed to burst across my scalp wherever she touched me, cascading down the back of my neck, loosening that place between my shoulder blades that is always tight and sore.
I would have let her do anything to me, as long as she did not stop.
I suppose she has a natural talent for scalp massage.
I ought to study its relaxing properties further.
After about twenty minutes, she blew out a breath and said, “There.” She stepped back and examined her work critically, then snapped her fingers, dived into the depths of her trunk, and came up with a little pot.
“Bingley’s man’s favorite hair pomade comes from the Meryton chemist,” she explained.
“I promised I’d buy him some.” She was doing something to the hair on top of my head—brushing it forward, twisting the pomade into it.
The spicy smell of the pomade mixed with Georgiana’s own smell—fine Italian soap and rain and a little bit of sweat.
Finally she stopped, raised my chin, and looked at me. She blinked. “Good heavens. That’s extraordinary.”
“What’s extraordinary?”
“You are. Do you want to see?”
She sounded a bit nervous. I wondered if she’d made a mess of it. I nodded, and went over to the glass. When I saw what she had done I thought my heart might stop.
My hair was shorter than any woman’s I’d ever seen. Almost as short as a man’s. It was cropped very close in the back, longer on the top and sides, and brushed forward in a mop of wild curls that crested over my forehead.
I’d seen young men with this look before. Byronic, they called it. As I was a girl, apparently it was the Lady Caro crop.
“Do you like it?” Georgiana said. She was standing just behind me, and I met her eyes in the mirror.
Did I like it?
My features are stronger than my sisters’.
Strong nose, strong jaw, dark slashing brows that tend toward frowning.
Every coiffure I have ever had thrust upon me has been an attempt, in some way or another, to apologize for this.
Bunches of round curls to soften the jaw, bright sprigs of girlish ribbon to distract from the brows. None of it worked very well.
There was nothing apologetic about the way I looked now. I scarcely recognized myself. The face in the glass was proud and elegant and a little wild. Still not a beautiful face, but—striking. I felt, suddenly, that to be striking was all I had ever wanted.
“You hate it,” Georgiana said, and put down the scissors with a glum thump. “I am sorry, Mary—”
“No,” I cut her off. “I don’t hate it. It is—well, it may strike Mamma dead when she sees it, but…” I blew out a breath. “But it will be worth it.”
She gave a little squeak of glee. “Oh good! For an instant there I thought you were going to murder me.”
“No,” I said. “I mean it. Thank you.” And on some strange impulse, I stood up and kissed her on the cheek.
I regretted it immediately. It obviously discomfited her. I was close enough to hear the little tck of her swallowing. When I pulled back, she pressed her hand to her cheek.
“How Continental,” she whispered.
“Yes, well,” I said, “I need sophisticated new manners to go with my new hair.”
She jerked a nod. “Well… good night, Mary.”
“Good night, Georgiana.”
I tried to read a little Quindley’s before going to sleep, but my mind kept drifting to the feeling of Georgiana’s cheek against my lips. I shoved the book in a drawer.
Mamma did faint when she saw me at the breakfast table the next morning.
But once she woke up, Georgiana told her about the ton and the Caro crop and Mamma was at least partially convinced.
There has never been a Caro crop before in Meryton, but Mamma is so in awe of the Darcys that she would believe Georgiana if she told us to shave ourselves bald and tattoo our scalps.
At the next assembly, my only hair ornament was a wide velvet ribbon, wrapped over the tumble of my curls.
As I am a young unmarried girl it ought to have been in some pale shade, but it was deep crimson, dyed with my own dyes.
Striking was absolutely the word for me—the conversation actually stopped when we came in.
I’m sure two thirds of Meryton thought I’d gone mad, but I didn’t care.
I felt like a new person. Besides, not everyone was unappreciative.
Four young men came up and asked me to dance—a record for me—and two of them asked twice.
I told them all no. I preferred to sit and talk with Georgiana.
Sorry to Mr. Quindley. At least I am still obeying his maxim to avoid flirtatiously courting male attentions.