It’s bouffant season and I’m not talking about the do. I’m talking about knots in the back of the hair formed by too many layers with the final one being a bouffant. Before the temps dropped precipitously low, we had color in nature, we had extremities comfortably exposed and we could walk through open passage ways without a wind burn. Pre-bouffant season, a passage between buildings like this was magical to witness the evening sun just before it disappeared—it had me shuddering in awe. And now I’m dipping into my stored-up energy just to keep me from turning into an icicle. It’s official, bouffant season is not for me.