Pigtails

When I started school, there was no kindergarten.  First and Second grades at the Valley Falls School were in the same room, and the teacher was Mrs. Flynn.  I think she was Bill Reilly's sister.  My brother was in second grade, on the left side of the room, next to the windows.  First grade was on the right side, near the door to the hallway.  The principal's office, with secretary, a woman who constantly cleared her throat, was at the front of the classroom; access to the office meant walking across the front of the classroom.  There were probably no more than 5 or 6 rows of seats, with about the same number of desks in each. I seem to remember there were only 2 rows of second graders and maybe 3 rows of first graders.  I sat in the first grade row across from my brother's desk  in the second grade.  On the first day of school, he, being a seasoned veteran to my brand new status, pointed out 2 first-grade girls seated side by side, and said, "Those 2 are about the best."   I was sitting behind the two girls and with one look, I was in total agreement.  They  were obviously friends with each other and seemed to know the teacher and  the school building.  I knew nothing or nobody and so that was enough to make me admire them, but what really fascinated me and filled me with envy was their hair.  Each of them wore braids, as did I, but their braids were smooth and flat, and tucked in at the ends. My hair then was long and  thick and curly and my mother wove a top braid along the top on each side into the basic braid.  Even so, there was always a cloud of frizzy curls escaping from the bulky braiding.  The ends were thick and left unbraided for the last few inches, like a paintbrush, I thought, compared to the tight narrow straight-haired braids of the 2 girls.  One of the girls had blonde hair, while the other had black hair.  And tied at the ends of each of their super-slick braids were the most beautiful plaid, obviously brand new hair ribbons I had ever seen.  I thought they looked like  the open wings of butterflies perched on the ends  of their braids. Any ribbons I wore were narrow, wrinkly strips rescued from candy boxes.  That was my first introduction, sort of, to Ruthie Osterhout and Barbara Spence.