Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.
"Ought they to smoke like that ?" asked Beth from her perch on the bed.
"It's the dampness drying," replied Jo.
"What a queer smell! It's like burned feathers," observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.
"There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.
She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.
"Oh, oh, oh! What have you done?
I'm spoiled! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead.
"Just my luck! You shouldn't have asked me to do it.

I always spoil everything.

I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with tears of regret.
"It isn't spoiled.

Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion.
I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly.
"Serves me right for trying to be fine.

I wish I'd let my hair alone," cried Meg petulantly.
"So do I, it was so smooth and pretty.