— the bangs on the forehead, and the hair drawn away from the face at the sides — gave my face that length it so badly needed.

When I study my hair from behind, I see that short hair suits my short neck. Fortunately I have beautiful hair that covers it, so I can wear a large catch-pin if fashion should bring it in, and thus look pretty from every angle.

Naturally, every woman feels the urge to follow the fashion, and I can confess that I felt how old-fashioned my style was when the vogue of long hair spread everywhere. I made believe my hair had grown long and began trying false hair around my face — and I can confess that in every one of them I looked like a sheep! It became clear to me once and for all that ladies with short necks like mine must keep well away from long hair falling to the shoulders.

Still, I can change my hairdo for certain occasions, with economy in the matter. Sometimes I part my hair at the side; sometimes I comb it in its natural way and curl my bangs a little, or show my ears.

But the front view of my face, the one that shows me at my prettiest, I never change at all. And why should I? When you, Madam, discover the way that makes you look beautiful from every angle, you must keep to it always.

Her Room

It is the wish of "The Woman's Voice" that no issue of hers should reach the readers without a song from the poetry of Michel Trad; and this poem, "Her Room," is excerpted from his new diwan, "Jalnar."

...And still, in the shadows, a waist aflutter,

on its blue sheets, and tassels of gold brocade,

and still this dust on the faces of the toys,

and a moth's wing asleep upon its candle.

And the frame of her picture, that time has worn and riddled,

and a vase that the snow keeps beating down,

and the perfume wilted among her locks,

and a spider and roses trading reproaches.

And a carpet, threadbare and faded, that she used to spread

facing the moon, and sprinkle over with jasmine;

its four yellow corners are whispering together

and asking after you, like the mad.

And still there is a flask of wine, and a book —

whenever I turn its pages it breathes of roses —

a little longing, and memories out of youth:

here a bare breast, there cheeks.

Jalnar, like a dream my days with you

have gone, and what is gone has no returning;

I bade my heart farewell the day my heart bade you farewell,

like the clouds the wind tears to shreds.

Michel Trad