Oddly—or not, for who can say of San Francisco?—there were fifty pairs of scissors in the crowd, all being ferried forward, hand over hand, above people’s heads, until they began to clump and clatter onto the stage in a pile. Pickford looked back toward her small group to see who would do the honors. Fairbanks shook his head—first, he wasn’t sure about touching her in public, and, more so, the act itself made him queasy. Hart, McAdoo, and all the staff also hesitated, for no one had cut Mary Pickford’s hair. D. W. Griffith’s irascible cameraman Billy Bitzer had said film was created only to show horses in gallop, the Bible in motion, and the tender fall of Mary Pickford’s curls. Her hair had caused five thousand women to come to Hollywood, to see if their hair was as perfect, and five thousand women had gone home humbled.

Even Chaplin hesitated. A figure brushed past him and stepped up the stairs to the platform. It was Frances Marion.

Mary handed her a pair of scissors.

“Can you take one good hank?”

“I’m going to shave you bald, Bug.”

It was an odd thing, being able to talk in front of what looked like the entire planet’s supply of people, but no one could hear them as long as they talked quietly.

“Don’t hate me, Scruffy.”

“I don’t. And I wasn’t with Charlie.”

“I believe you. Take a good, long piece from the real part, there.”

The scissors hesitated. “Are you sure about this?”

“No.”

The wind shifted; whitecaps appeared on the surface of the water tank behind them. A moment later, Frances had sheared off about eighteen inches, curly and heavy. Mary thanked her, and then held the braid up above the audience. There was the kind of confused wonder that would greet an auction of pieces of the Constitution.

“It’s time to go Over the Top. What am I bid for this?”

A hand went up in the crowd. “Five thousand dollars!”

“Six thousand!”

“Eight thousand!”

“Nine—no, ten thousand dollars!”

From far in the distance, across the street, the windows of the Knightly Barber College, where quick consultation among the master barbers had decided the braid would bring them priceless publicity, there was a shout: “Thirteen thousand!”

Pickford’s eyes found, to the left of the stage, a quiet gallery of dignitaries who wore beaver coats, and their wives, who had led the parade down Market Street. They had as of yet been unmolested. She said, “Gentlemen, I could buy this for thirteen thousand—surely you could pay more?”