Dear Diary:
There I was on the subway and diagonally across the car was one of those women who needed to be examined.
Clearly well into her 70s, maybe 80s, but fighting it tenaciously if not graciously with a screamingly conspicuous jet-black wig restrained from complete disorder by an almost iridescent blue headband. Her face was as gray as her real hair must be, drawn in grooves of gravity and gravitas, eyes dulled to nondescript, and when she cracked a small smile to the blind (really) person next to her, her teeth bore witness to a long acquaintance with Liggett & Myers.
A casual hint of makeup just didn’t deny the sadness of her futile fight with time. I was wondering how some of us somehow keep our balance while others stumble down the slope of eventuality.
And just as I was wondering this, she looked up, caught my eye and, with a gesture, offered me her seat.
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