The Quick
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A family friend called Dottie gave me my first haircut in the living room of her old house. I cried hard but did not move a muscle, only my eyes. “You were so still,” they tell me. “It didn’t take her long at all.” There’s a photo of me in a chair with a sheet around me—my face puffy, Dottie laughing, my hair still little-boy blonde. My chubby arms were frozen. My legs, like rolls of baker’s dough, shot straight out over the seat. I had long eyelashes and droopy cheeks I eventually grew into. I was told they got so big from Dottie and her mother-in-law Jean sucking on them so hard at church.