There was a brisk discussion with the slender and artistic Antoine. A bob, they decided. Just the thing.

“Oh, gracious,” I said. “I don’t think—”

Mildred pulled a silver flask from her pocket and handed it to me as though that were just another service she provided to her customers. “Canadian courage,” she whispered, urging me to take a sip. “I know an ‘importer,’ ” she said with a wink, and then offered to take Rosie out for a walk.

Recognizing the word, Rosie wiggled and whined rapturously. The two of them disappeared together. Antoine picked up his scissors.

Two hours later, the salon receptionist summoned Mildred in time to see me whirled in my chair to behold Antoine’s handiwork. Everyone in the shop applauded when I gasped. What had always been long and frizzy and disobedient was now short and shining and perfectly waved.

“Miss Shanklin,” Mildred declared, “you are the bee’s knees.”

“Well! I don’t know about that,” I murmured. But truly? From that moment on, I was Galatea to Mildred’s Pygmalion.

The weather had gotten worse while I was being shorn; with the store now nearly empty, its bored staff was entirely available to bring a dazzled and unresisting customer into the twentieth century. As we sailed down the escalator, Mildred called out assignments to her stylish young colleagues, detailing the elements of my wardrobe each should supply from the Better Coats Department, from Sports Wear, and Dresses, and Ladies’ Shoes. All of Halle’s took on a party atmosphere and I allowed myself to be borne along on the enthusiasm. It reminded me of rainy afternoons in childhood when Lillie would cry, “Come on, Agnes! Let’s play dress-up!” Only, this time, I would be the fairy princess.