My first best friend …

I must be pretty desperate for content if I’m willing to share this photo with you. It’s me, at about two years old sporting the worst haircut ever! How could my mother do that to me? I particularly love that curl that seems to have a mind of its own. Reminds me of the poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

The day the picture was taken, I was being particularly horrid. My mother told me I howled the whole time. Definitely did not want to be there or have my picture taken.

After about an hour of non-stop tears, they were about to give up in defeat when somebody said, “Maybe if we let her hold her doll.” So my mother, who was at her wits end, told me that my doll (can’t remember her name) wanted to have her picture taken — and she handed her to me.

Like magic, I stopped crying just long enough for the photographer to get this one shot. Dolly to the rescue. I hope, by the way, you have noticed that we were in matching dresses. That pleased me no end. It was not just happenstance either.

Just so you know, I went nowhere without that doll. Nowhere. Some kids suck their thumb. Some have a blankie. I had that doll. She ate with me, slept with me, played with me and accompanied me everywhere. I remember one time when I was at my grandmother’s house, when my parents were out for the evening.

It was quite late when they came to pick me up, I don’t know why I wasn’t sleeping over. Anyway, in their haste to get me home to bed they inadvertently left the doll behind. It was only when I was in bed that I realized she was missing. I was inconsolable. They called my grandparents who ran around the house like two maniacs looking for my doll.

Sure enough, she was safe and sound, tucked behind one of the pillows on the sofa. “She’s fine,” they assured me. I was having none of it. I needed her with me. “You can come and get her in the morning,” they said. “She’s tired now, she’s sleeping, we should let her sleep.”

Nope. She had to come home. Off my father went.

Eventually her eyes, which were painted, faded which really made her look very creepy, but I cared not. I wonder what ever happened to her. What are the chances she’s on Facebook?