I stopped caring what people think about my hair during this pandemic when it dawned on me that nobody actually gives a shit about my hair. Imagine that. So I freed myself from the costly colouring regime that ruled my life for so, so long. And since I started rocking the silver locks, it feels like folks are just so dang friendly now, masks and distancing protocols notwithstanding. Does being a woman of a certain age make me more approachable (think: Grandma); more….safe?
The first time I noticed a difference in how people treat me was when a clerk overseeing self-checkout at Canadian Tire appeared at my shoulder, like honestly out of nowhere. “I can help you with that,” she breathed.
Was I offended that my grey head seemed to be a cue that I’d need help navigating the befuddling process of scanning my stuff, or that I probably couldn’t wrestle my two-pound mop onto the scanner without a hand? No, no I wasn’t. Because I’ll take all the human interraction I can get after 14 months of working from home.
Another customer drew her away for a minute and just as the scanner was spitting out my receipt she swooped back in, mouth agog, pearls clutched, exclaiming “oh my gosh you got it done all by yourself! Good for you!” Yup, look at me. Such a big girl. And yet, I didn’t really mind.
This morning as I waited outside the grooming salon with Morgan, my border collie, an old fella stopped to admire and pet her. “She’s so beautiful,” he said. “Just look at her lovely eyes. We had a dog for 22 years and I had to get her put down. It broke my heart.” All I could see of his face were his eyes, framed between his mask and the brim of his cap, and at the bottom of his mask, a nest of wild grey whiskers trying their best to break free. Even so, I could see his eyes had narrowed and looked pained.
“Twenty two years is the longest life I’ve ever heard of in a dog,” I remarked. “You must really miss her. What breed was she?”
His chin dropped and his right hand went up to his ear, where it hovered just an inch away, not actually touching the ear. That’s when I noticed a tremor in the hand that wasn’t there when he petted Morgan. He stood like that for about 15 seconds, then looked up at me and said, “I’m sorry. I have Parkinson’s. Sometimes I lose my thoughts.”
As he bent again to pet and coo over my furry office assistant, another old fella parked a delivery van in front of the store and walked towards us, reaching out to pet my girl as he neared. He was filthy, this guy. His clothes hung off of him — baggy pants, a grubby plaid shirt under a heavily stained yellow safety vest, and an obviously favourite cap. Like worn every day for 15 years favourite. His hands hadn’t seen soap and water for a long time, but he did have a mask on. A very dirty one, but still.
“Got yourself a young one, do ya?” he asked, and when he spoke I half expected to see dust clouds poof out of that mask. “She’s real pretty.” Even though the PetSmart doors had opened by then, the three of us stayed there on the sidewalk, about four feet apart and in a triangle around Morgan, while I told them Morgan’s story. How she was rescued just hours before the farmer who owned her planned to shoot her, because she was ‘crazy.’ How she was a year old then and had never been inside a house. How she was so high strung and skittish the first night of our one-week trial with her, I swore we’d have to give her back. “Don’t know if this one can be saved,” the dog trainer who fostered her after the rescue had declared.
But a pleading daughter with big sad eyes convinced me to give her a chance, and by God here we are three years later having loved that dog right into being her best self. And she. is. awesome.
After that, the two men went into the store and I took Morgan in for her spa day. As I was leaving, grubby guy hurried out behind me and caught up so he could tell me about the two little dogs he and ‘the wife’ had at home. He pulled his mask under his chin as he talked, revealing a mouth with, oh, about five teeth. I backed up. But out of a pocket appeared a phone and he stepped toward me to show me a picture of his beloved pets. His ice-blue eyes were lively and I could see that he really just wanted to chat, but I had to get back for a meeting and so I broke away.
I know what you’re thinking. It’s not my grey hair that’s drawing strangers to strike up a conversation. Nor is it my canary yellow leather jacket; the one that screams ‘see how cheerful and sunny I am, come and chew the fat!’
It’s my beautiful dog with the lovely eyes and the sad, sad back story.