The buttonholes were finished and Rebecca's dark hair pulled through and braided. The little girl stood patiently while the old woman gently smoothed her hair.
"I been a layin' by ter git Brer Johnson ter trade in some er this here tattin' fer a bresh ter keep down here jes' fer yo' hair, Miss Beck baby. If yo' hair'd git mo' 'tention it wouldn't hurt none. Who fixes it fer you of a mornin'?"
"Aunt Evelyn does it sometimes and sometimes Aunt Myra but sometimes I just kind of slap it with a brush myself and run along quick before either one of them remembers me. Aunt Evelyn digs into my head something awful, Aunt Pearly Gates, just like she was doing something she didn't want to do a bit, but felt somehow she must do it to keep from going to the bad place. I can see her face in the mirror over my head and it looks so queer and hard—not pretty the way she is sometimes. When Aunt Myra does my hair she stands 'way off from me and picks up the comb just like it was a snake, or something horrid, and then she dabs at me and seems to be trying not to touch my hair any more than she can help—kind of like it was a greasy dishrag or something nasty. What makes them hate me so, Aunt Pearly Gates?"
