I don’t remember ever having such a pleasant and relaxing bath. The water temperature was just right. The soap was sweet-smelling and felt good on my skin, and the shampoo that Mrs. Smith had made, or at least purchased from the local apothecary, not only served its purpose but I was sure had been blended with rosemary and chamomile, and maybe even some nettle, which made hair extra shiny.
When I had thoroughly dried myself off, I slipped into my new dress. It fit perfectly in every way, from the length of the hem to the sizing of its long sleeves. The seamstress had even decorated the collar at the neck and the cuffs at the wrists with embroidered blue daisies. It was the most beautiful dress I’d ever worn. I admired it in the mirror and was surprised when I looked at my reflection. The dress made me looked almost pretty.
I’d never been called ugly, but in the cast-off dresses I’d worn, no one had ever taken a second look at me. The only attention I’d ever received from the boys in school had been of the negative sort. Several of the children at the various houses I’d lived on had mocked my braids and given them painful tugs, but I wore them primarily that way so that my hair didn’t fall in my face while I was scrubbing floors, tending to babies, or pulling weeds. Thus, few people had ever seen my hair down.
In fact, I hadn’t given much thought to the way my hair looked or to its length. Since it was wet, I left it down, wanting it to dry faster. As I brushed it, more to civilize it than anything else, I noticed how long it had gotten — almost touching my waist. It was thick, too.
My hair was a rather drab color, not blonde like the admired girls. My locks were a mixture of browns and blacks with a touch of red thrown in for oddness. But beggars can’t be particular, and this is the way I’d come.