There is an old

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Woman with a bag on her head at the cafeteria today. It looks as though she put Henna in her hair to keep things fresh. To keep it real. Though not too real. She wants what? Men? Probably. Women? probably. She wants what she doesn’t have, but — who doesn’t. She also has a phone on the table. An old-timey phone with a rotary dial. She looks poised to answer.

Your stylist?
Excuse me?
Are you waiting for you stylist to call.
I don’t have a stylist.
I was just joking. Because of your hair.
You’re not old, are you.
I’m old.
You’re not an old soul.
Are you?
I’ll let you be the judge of that.
Then, no.
Excuse me.
I don’t think you’re an old soul. I think you’re an old woman with a bag over your head that’s trying to look younger.
I don’t want to be younger. Do you see any plastic surgery on this face.
Exactly. I die my hair cause I get rid of the grey.
Grey doesn’t match my outfit. It’s a color thing. I don’t suppose you’d understand.
Guess not.
I happen to run a non-profit.
Really? Waiting on your accountant?
Never mind.
Oh, the phone.
Cause my non-profit doesn’t make any money?
That’s where I was going. Not as funny when you have to explain.
You’re a really unhappy person.
I know.
I’m an old woman with a bag on my head poised to answer a phone that isn’t plugged in.
Right. You must be an old soul.

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