"Oh very well. My father has a very special present for me: it is a long black wig. I will wear it when I return for my wedding. I will be a sophisticated woman."
"But ... anyone can buy a wig, surely? You could buy one in Germany, and wear it the next day."
"No. You don't understand. I would be laughed at, in my circle. It would be too sudden: die Verwandlung ... the metamorphosis. We have our little rules, of etiquette. My long hair must be won. It must be a trophy. An achievement. Anything of that sort must be. A suntan under ultraviolet lamps is cheating."
"You mean, it's like a Red Indian head-dress?"
"Oh, I hardly think that!" She began to flounce away.
"Wait! Your friends will all conspire to pretend that you grew your hair long on the voyage? ("For want of anything better to do...")
"Have you noticed," she asked dreamily, "all the beautiful long hair in my Father's films? Oh, it is wasted on those women--but only oriental hair grows so quickly and strongly. That's why they can sell it, and grow a new crop."
"I think they probably sell their hair because they're starving!" I protested, incensed. "They sell it to the wig-makers because it's the only way they can get a little money for a bag of rice. That's even worse than selling one's body: it's selling years of one's life--the years spent growing the hair. It's...."
"Oh, you think so, do you?"
"They aren't a flock of sheep, you know."
Suddenly she looked as though she was about to burst into tears.
"I have told you my secret! And now you pour scorn. You are no gentleman at all."
)
