Daddy never did let me do anything.
I swear, it's like he thinks he's the big cheese or something. It wasn't this bad when he was just a simple flattie. Now, with the prohibition, he's never been so concerned with "moral conduct" (though I think it has more to do with keeping his position as chief of police). And if the governor was any more fond of him, he'd have to be dizzy with him like a dame!
Anyhow, I don't see why he won't let me do what I want. I'm sure he'll throw an ing-bing when he sees how I've chopped my hair. It's not quite as severely chic as Louise Brooks, but chic nonetheless! All my pals have had theirs done for AGES. It's about time I styled myself. Mother's not so unreasonable, but she always does what daddy says, like a good wife. But even SHE'S got the finger waves.
"Don't grow up too soon, sweet," she says. But I'm eighteen, I want to scream, I already am! "I don't want to see you turn into one of those brash young ladies," She says, her palm under my chin. A Flapper, she's thinking.
Well that's exactly what I want to be.