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“I just can’t do ANYTHING with this hair!” Florence looked at me like it was the end of the world. “Oh nonsense. Your hair’s perfect. At least YOU can do whatever you like with it, because you’ve got some. Look at me: bald as an eagle.” “Ha, ha, haven’t we all heard that before,” Florence griped. “All your worries about HAIR are over for good. All you’ve got to worry about now is your waistline and your hips.” “Well. Ha, ha, ha,” I countered. “I happen to be losing weight, for your information.” Florence sighed and brought out her pocket mirror. “What am I going to DO?” she cried. “I can’t stand the way this looks. It’s too frizzy, or else it’s too—too yuck!” “Maybe you should consider getting a hair transplant I suggested, just having something to say. “Don’t be funny, I don’t have that kind of dough.” “We know, Florence, we know.” “Can’t you recommend anybody? Don’t you know any salons?” “Ever hear of the Yellow Pages?” I said. “Besides, since I no longer HAVE any hair, I don’t spend very much time dealing with hair stylists…wait a minute. My sister’s boyfriend cuts people’s hair. Here’s his phone number—maybe he could give you some hints.” “I sure wish there was something else he could give me,” Florence complained.