It was a cold winter day and bits of icy snow were still falling on the windshield. I was in the passenger seat of our station wagon and my mother’s mouth was set in “stress.” She said, “When we go inside, you will hear me apologize for being late, and blaming the snow. This is a white lie. We shouldn’t ever lie. But if I don’t, I might lose the appointment.” I was a little bit in awe—my mother was about to lie. I walked into the hair salon with ears and eyes paying close attention. And she did mumble something to the receptionist about our precarious ride to the shop, after which we were hustled over to a waiting space and quickly given our turns.
The term ‘feminine’ conjures up images of flowers and pink fluffy fabrics, soft smiles, and sweetly spoken words. Years ago, girls in Minnesota who preferred soccer to sewing were called