"In the matter of hair," I said, glancing at the top of George's head.
"Hair," said George hastily, "has nothing to do with it. Hair is an
excrescence, a hideous and perpetual reminder of our arboreal
ancestry."
"You had better tell her that," I replied. "She would appreciate it."
"I was not speaking of bronze hair. You never saw a bronze-haired
monkey."
"It may be dyed," I suggested.
George picked up his banjo.
"Such blasphemy," he said, "deserves a heavy punishment. I shall
sing you 'Beauty's Eyes.'"
"Is there no option?" I pleaded.
With his thumb on the strings, George paused.
"Yes," he said, "you can wash up."