ABSTRACT
Since it was a beautifully clear, warm day, so unexpected in early February, I had the hairdresser Omiyo do my hair on the second floor porch. To speak plainly, as I no longer care about hiding my age, I was having her pull my white hairs. I had started to have her over once every month or two more than ten years ago. Thanks to this, I have lived without knowing the great trouble that otherwise accompanies a woman's personal care after middle age.
