I had to get my hair done. After six months on the Vineyard, serious hair repair was going to be necessary to get my flaxen mane back on track. Unlike on the Island, where I go to a simple establishment with an equally simple price tag, in Palm Beach the more high-end professional job is paramount — and about $200 more expensive.

Walking in after the valet takes my car, George greets me as if I were his long-lost best friend. A woman swoops through the waiting room, offering some cream that is one of Oprah’s favorite things. “Can I get you something to drink?” It is a phrase heard over and over throughout the salon. Through floor-to-ceiling windows I see a dark blue Bentley pull up; the valet leaves it directly in front of the building. My car has been shuttled off elsewhere.

This is a salon par excellence. A dozen or so hairdressers and perhaps 15 or 16 attendees, all sleek, all dressed in black trousers and white shirts, hover around the clients. Everyone is made to feel they are a VIP, a good friend, a special friend. This part is just like the little place I go to on the Vineyard. As I am ushered to my chair I apologize to George for my hair. He asks, “Can I get you anything to drink?” and goes off to mix a batch of hair color.

Returning with his magic mixture, his hands run through my hair as if it were a bale of straw hiding an insect of National Geographic interest. Too many months of saltwater, sun and being a woman of a certain age — my hair is nothing less than a tinder box. I should steer clear of flammable fluids, open flames and exhaust vents. We chat, he performs his miracle and I am moved to another chair to sit and wait for the magic chemicals to do their thing. The stacks of fashion magazines do nothing for me; besides, I do not have my reading glasses. A woman wearing glasses so large I think she resembles an owl sits nearby. She is getting highlights — 20 hairs at a time wrapped in pieces of tin foil. I notice her pocketbook. Probably cost $1,000. I look at my canvas bag with Martha’s Vineyard mold creeping up its sides.

We speak to each other; she is there for the day, getting everything done. I am the canvas bag version, getting the necessities of hair done. Still, I know George will treat me as if I were the owner of that $1,000 bag.

My time is up at the waiting station and I am moved to the washout area. Another attendee scoots me into place. There is a lot of waiting when you get your hair done. Ah, here comes the owl woman, foil scattered across her head; she resembles a Star Wars creature. But she is being led by an attendee, and her eyes — there are no glasses. Something is wrong.

The woman is seated next to me. Her head falls back on the headrest. Her complexion is gray.

The salon is suddenly a mass of hairdressers running in all directions. The owner appears and instructs the foil to be taken from her head, her hair rinsed. In Palm Beach you do not go to the hospital with foil on your head. Someone says, “Call 911.” I am pretty sure in the distance I hear, “Can I get you something to drink?”

Minutes later the EMTs arrive. Unfortunately I have been moved to the cut station, but George keeps an eye on everything happening at the wash station.

“She’s awake. They are taking her blood pressure,” he reports, one eye on snipping my hair, the other on the mirrors for a view of the wash station.

“No, no, she’s staying. She has to get her nails done and eyebrows waxed. After all, this is Palm Beach.”

I leave with a new head of hair and climb into my car, its floors still full of Vineyard sand, some wild turkey droppings stuck to the hood. In the distance I hear faintly, “Can I get you something to drink?”

Gazette contributor J. Goodman-McIntosh lives in Vineyard Haven.