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Let's imagine that Dave were starting graduate work next September at -- say -- The Wharton School. Daddy wouldn't even mind if Dave was going to be on a needs-based fellowship there -- a cash stipend, intended to assist young men and women from the wrong side of the tracks to... well, to cross over to the right side of those tracks, someday.So it wasn't just Dave's being from someplace called Coshocton, Ohio (strike one), or being a graduate of a ho-hum college (strike two), that was working against my new guy. It was the fact that, so far as anyone knew at least, Dave wasn't going to be enrolling at the Wharton School, or any other graduate school, any time soon -- if ever.He was a baseball player, for God's sake! And it wasn't like he was Cal Ripken, or some comparably glamorous, well-loved, conspicuously successful current baseball player, even. He was some no-name guy, scraping along in the low minors, trying to catch a break. His immediate ambition was to scrape along until. It pained her to think about what she saw. She recognized the longing, but didn't know if she should fulfill it. What could be the long term consequences?Actually, she had decided a year and a half ago, but even she didn't know it. Herb had protested so loudly, and so bitter were his tears, at the mention of the barbershop, that his hair had not been cut since then. Now, it reached his shoulders. He kept it carefully brushed. She had even seen him trying to form it into a ponytail, no; it had been more of a bun, at the top of his head.This Thanksgiving, she would grant his secret wish. Thanksgiving morning started as usual for Herb. Mom and Carol had already showered and now it was his turn. He hurried through his shower, and dressed quickly. He didn't want to miss seeing Mom "do the rollers." Even though watching the hair setting ritual pained him with envy, he knew he would watch it anyway. At least he could imagine that it was his hair being rolled. He watched as Mom finished.
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