Saltzberg conveys the pleasing goofiness of special days at school when students can let their hair down-Pajama Day, Sixties Day, or best of all: Crazy Hair Day. Only Stanley Birdbaum-who, along with his schoolmates, looks like a reclining acorn perched atop a roly-poly body-gets the day wrong. It's Picture Day, not Crazy Hair Day. Mortified, he takes up residence in the school bathroom. His friend gently coaxes him back to the room to take his place in the class picture: "Remember Sixties Day, when Mr. Winger had the flu but came in anyway? He said the day wouldn't be the same if we weren't all together." There he finds his mates ready for the photographer with all manner of strange adornments on their heads: wastepaper baskets, piles of crayons, a stack of books; Mr. Winger is wearing a globe. "This is going to be a day I never forget," Stanley had said when he left home that morning with his rainbow thatch. Right you are, Stanley. (Picture book. 4-8)
I’ll never forget the day my daughter’s hair exploded. Garland was about nine when, seemingly overnight, her baby-fine, flaxen locks erupted into an unruly thicket I could have used to scrub pots. From then on, and all through her teens, Garland had the biggest, thickest, tangliest hair in three states. Combing out the knots was the Big Chore of […]