At the risk of confirming or confusing your mental image of your correspondent, here it is, a pic of me:
In First Grade.
Hard to believe. Even then, you can note the scar over my left eye, bravely earned on my tricycle. It plays havoc with my makeup routine even today.
You can't see the eight stitches under my chin, for which I have no explanation except that I have five older brothers and two older sisters. I'm sure I earned it in battle.
I was a flaxen blonde then, except those dark eyebrows were giving away the fact that by 4th grade I would be a brunette.
My mom taught me how to read at age four, so of course I was the class problem child, bored with the work. I somehow remember knowing everything, and the words to every song they made us sing. Even if they were different than what was on the chalk board. My teacher was exasperated with me. Poor Sister Mary Perpetua!
I only had to write out the Act of Contrition about fifty times and can still recite it, to this day. It was prescribed after trumped-up charges about throwing rocks at the boys or some other pugilistic pursuit. As if!