You Never Know

Many years ago while walking briskly up New York City’s Fifth Avenue on a bright, spring morning, I slowly overtook what appeared to be a blond, twenty-something woman—slim, well-dressed, and attractive.   As I passed by and glanced over, she glanced back and smiled.  As our eyes met, I think I let out an audible gasp.  She was about seventy years old.

She was a character straight out of Fellini’s “La Dolce Vita.”  The long blond hair was a wig, her own wispy, white hair sticking out at the edges. Her face was a web of wrinkles.  Her eyebrows had been plucked out and penciled back in, and her large, plump lips were only flat, slightly crooked images drawn in bright red lipstick over a lip-less mouth.  As a 70-year-old, she could have been an appealing, handsome woman.  But as a 20-year-old, she was grotesque.

Ever since, I mind my own business when I walk alone in a city.

RWalck@Verizon.net

 

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About Roger Walck

My reasons for writing this blog are spelled out in the posting of 10/1/2012, Montaigne's Essays. They are probably not what you think.
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