An elderly woman shared an aisle at the thrift store with me.
Her hair was perfectly dyed and set in springy curls.
Her eyebrows were drawn on with a high arch and she had obviously spent a good bit of time selecting her outfit, coordinating her patterned hose with pert, little heels and a hat to match.
I noticed her because she was muttering to herself while she shopped.
“Oh, my arms are breaking,” she exclaimed to no one in particular.I kept looking up at her, wondering if she was talking to me or if she expected me to respond in some way.
[What is it with me and attracting unwanted attention at the thrift store?]
My friend Gail invited me to join her and her older brother Steve on this particular thrift store outing.
Steve and I were chatting about grey hair in the checkout line.
Steve, 15 years older than Gail and I, is already completely grey.
It was the muttering, elderly woman.
“I’ve decided to let mine go,” I said in solidarity as he stroked a hand across his silver locks.
“Oh, DON’T!” I heard a voice urge.
“Pardon?” I said, again unsure if she was speaking to me.
“Don’t let your hair go grey!” she insisted. “It looks attractive on men, but NEVER on a woman!”[No, please… don’t hold back, Lady!]
“Wait and see,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll look okay with grey hair.”
[Maybe I will and maybe I won’t, but I’ve decided not to care.]
Later, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, surveying for further evidence of my encroaching decrepitude.
I noticed a sharp uptick in grey hair, deepening lines on my face and ever heavier bags under my eyes.
“I look like myself,” I thought, “myself getting older.”Regardless of what the woman in the thrift store said, I think I’m alright with it.
[At least for today.]
2 of 365: Today's random list of little things for which I'm grateful