They said they would put a record on the stereo when I finished my homework. I placed the beautiful pages (no folds, no erasures, no dog-ears) into my binder and looked into the smoky dining room where they shared their after dinner cigarettes and knew that they would not interrupt this ritual to play music for me. It was always the same story. Since I was ten years old, I would do it myself. I placed South Pacific on the turntable, lowered the needle to the song I loved and washed that man right out of my hair.