Bernice was a plump, grandmotherly woman in her sixties. Her own hair was gray and healthy looking (“Wouldn’t put that junk on my hair!”) and in spite of the fact that it was June and the temperature was hovering in the high eighties, she wore brown corduroy pants and red Tote socks, the heavy ones with traction on the bottom.

“Do, Jesus!” she said when she saw my hair. “Terri Lee said it was an emergency.”

“I think it looks kind of rakish,” I said. “My husband hates it, though.”

“What did you do to it?”

I explained about the Summer Marigold.

“That’s pretty good stuff. Shouldn’t have done this.” Bernice rubbed some of my hair through her fingers. “Most gray hair’s hard to color, but I think we’ve got the exception to the rule here. What did the patch test do?”

“Didn’t do one.”

Bernice clicked her tongue. “Most people don’t. Makes it good for my business. Here.” She led me to a row of chairs before a long mirror. She and I were the only ones in the shop.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.

“I give my girls a couple of weeks off in the summer. Just close the whole damn place.” She flipped a plastic cape around me. “I still run the emergency room, though.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” I watched Bernice in the mirror as she examined my hair, picking up strands and looking at it.

“Okay,” she said finally, “do you want dark blond with a few gold streaks like Cindy Crawford or do you want to go whole hog like Christy Brinkley?”

My mouth fell open. “You can do that?”

“Of course not. I just wondered. I like Christy’s look, myself. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

“No.”

“Then hold your nose and let’s get going.”

“Shouldn’t we do a patch test?” I asked nervously as Bernice led me to a shampoo chair.

“You’ve already done it,” she said. “Flunked.”

God’s truth.

Over the course of the next hour and a half, I learned that Bernice’s blood pressure medicine made her cold, that the beauty shop was paid for lock, stock, and barrel, and that her husband had been addicted to the Weather Channel ever since he decided to ride out Hurricane Opal in their trailer. She, Bernice, had hightailed it to Montgomery with the cat.

“Three o’clock in the morning, he’s up sneaking looks at the radar,” she said, pouring something cold and foul smelling over my scalp. “Old fool.”

“That’s sad!” I said when I could catch my breath.

“Should have gone with me and the cat.” Bernice wrapped a plastic turban around my head.

“Did you have much damage to your trailer?”

“What trailer?”