Fair hair

If there are two things I love to write about in this crazy city of ours it’s about trying to get a date, and public transit. Sometimes I combine the two by trying to get a date while on public transit. It’s very challenging with all the lurching and stopping and the ebb and flow of people.
After flailing down Arbutus to hop on the bus this morning (which I hate because you just know that everyone on the bus is staring at you, all red faced and frenetic as you try to run in such a manner as to minimize the jostling of the unnecessarily large backpack strapped to you, while dodging puddles and trying to look elegant), I grabbed a seat next to a lady that I see almost daily. I would put her in her late forties or early fifties. I would perhaps use the terms prim, reserved and demure to describe her. She has aged well, is not overweight and I’m sure she was a knock out when she was twenty. Her vanity is her hair, I think. Whenever I see her she has a kerchief on over her hair, tied under her chin. With her belted coat, gloves and boots she looks very 1950s, which I think is both classic and classy. I think she has two, possibly three kerchiefs, which are always clean and neatly creased. Her hair is shoulder length and ash-blonde, obviously not naturally, but the color job is excellent and I’m sure she spends a pretty penny on it. She gets off the bus at Robson and it kind of got me thinking about what she did for a living. Likely she has an office job, maybe an accountant or an executive assistant. She could also be a sales person at an upscale clothing store, I’m not sure. And I wonder: do the people with whom she works understand the lengths to which she goes to ensure her hair remains undampened by the rain, snow and mist and unruffled by the wind. It is her pride, it looks very nice and simple and I found myself hoping that people complement her on it. Let’s say her name is Margaret. I hope from time to time some of the young hot shots that she works with - who Margaret secretly looks down on with just a little disdain when she takes in their (in her mind) too-tight slacks, garish makeup and slang talk – stop and tell her that her hair is regal and flowing, and that they admire the way that it is always perfectly coiffed, rain or shine, when she arrives to work.
I bet she thinks my nose piercing is slatternly.
Ah Margaret, my fair-haired Margaret.