My husband dropped me off at the Melbourne City library, after running up on the curb in our mammoth, politically incorrect pickup truck. The truck looked a little tipsy when he pulled away. I laughed lightly, waved vaguely at the retreating truck, and quipped, “I thought he was going to drive right up to the circulation desk.”
The woman waiting outside the library for her ride laughed with me.
Then she stopped, looked me over, and said, “Your hair looks amazing.”
I was delighted, pleased, and flattered. I flipped my newly streaked and layered haircut.
“My son-in-law is a hair dresser. He’s a genius. How lucky am I?”
“Not lucky. Blessed. It makes you look so young.”
“Thank you so much. You’ve made my day.”
Laughing again, we waved and she left.
It was a pleasant, civil moment on a rainy Florida day. Did I mention that the woman that complimented me so graciously was African American? Or that I’m as white as white can get? I didn’t? I guess it didn’t matter.