I know better than to criticize myself when my mother is around. She always agrees.

"My hair looks awful," I said more to myself than to her as we passed a department store mirror and I stopped to take a look.

She nodded. "I know."

She ignored the look I threw her, which was, in reality, uglier than my hair. "I was just thinking a little while ago that you looked like a little orphan girl."

She paused for a second and frowned. "That's not really fair to say."

I couldn't believe my ears. She was going to retract a criticism. Then, she continued. "Little Orphan Annie never looked bad like that."

I have learned not to retort with her. My words are too sharp and, besides, I can't win. So, I said nothing. I just tried to smooth down the disheveled mess.

But she can't stop. She'll always offer analysis.

"I think you're ruining your hair with all the stuff you put on it. It's probably just dry and brittle."

I decided to retort. "My hair is in perfect condition. It is not dry and brittle."

"Did you use hairspray?"

"Yes."

"Because it doesn't look like you used hairspray. If you sprayed it real good, it wouldn't look like that. Are you sure you used hairspray?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, what kind did you use?"

"An expensive kind."

"Then you should change brands. It doesn't look like to me that the one you're using is worth a dime."

I resisted the urge to retort further. I decided to wait and even the score. I knew my time would come.

It did a couple of weeks later when we arrived together for a family get together. Mama worries about her looks more than I do, especially when she's going to be anywhere near someone who might brag on her.

She was walking a few steps ahead of me when, suddenly, she stopped and turned to ask, "Do I look okay?"

Before I could answer, she continued. "I shouldn't have worn this. I'll probably have on the worst looking outfit here."

My chance had arrived. I nodded, being sure that I gave her a serious once-over like she would give me. "Why on earth did you wear that anyway? You have much prettier clothes."

That did it.

Mama, though, doesn't handle me as well as I handle her. I ignore her but she takes my words seriously.

"I'm going home." She turned