On this particular island, it's people that are deciduous. The fall is their season of wooing, when heads are ablaze with all shades of foxy splendors.
A winter of baldness will follow, time of hats and caps, berets and bonnets. (You should see the variety, metropolitan milliners go there for inspiration.)
But before, out of all shed hair, a mammoth herd of it, the people build a bonfire. Their fastest runner sets it aflame: it'll burn to ashes in an instant.
If you want to see it, choose a windy night, for it smells like hell does.
But what a flame.
Springs there tend to be shrubby.