I knew a guy in high school named Lynn. He had ridiculously curly hair. To battle his unruly, Orthodox Jewish locks, he'd wrap his head in one of his mom's leg stockings and sleep with it on overnight. He hated those curls. But they infested his scalp like Kudzu. He even pressed his hair with a hot, steaming iron with his head awkwardly bent over the scorched silver board. The result of these techniques looked like Matt Groening cartoon hair. But he strutted around proudly with that straight do.
Lynn took art lessons from the outfit that advertised on the inside of matchbooks. One day, a few of us were over at his house while there was an intimate, impromptu family meeting going on in the kitchen. His mother was divorced and took care of him and his younger brother all by her lonesome. I had no idea where she worked. They were discussing the household budget. As the little brother was weeping we heard Lynn whine, “Ah, mom. What about my art lessons?” We all sat in the next room quietly. Snickering.