A new family from Boston had bought a house near ours on Cape Cod, and their daughter joined my eighth-grade class. She seemed older than the rest of us and quickly became popular — partly, I thought, because she was so pretty.
That summer I heard she was giving haircuts on her front porch. I worked up the nerve to ask if she’d cut my long hair. “Just bring me a present,” she said. “A joint or a bottle of wine or something.”
My best friend’s older brother sold me a joint for a dollar, and at my haircut appointment a few days later, I paid in advance. After she wrapped the apron around my neck, the budding hairstylist lit the joint and started smoking it with her younger sister. They offered me some, but I awkwardly declined.
