I got off a plane recently and my ride didn’t recognize me (though we’ve met a great number of times over the last decade). The sandwich shop in my neighborhood used to start writing down my standing order when I walked in the door; now the servers act as if we’ve never met. At the local bar, I get the same summer drink every time; the bartender used to reach for the bottle when she saw me. Now she says, “What can I get for you?” And more than one person has done a double take.
I have, you see, given in to my 40s; I’ve stopped dyeing my hair (which I’ve been doing since it first started turning from strawberry to grey a decade ago). It simply took too much time every five to six weeks; I hate sitting still. Plus, it cost a lot of money; I’d rather spend that on handplanes and walnut.
But it seems my hair was the only recognizable thing about me. Now, you’ll just have to find me by the faint whiff of sawdust. And old-lady smell (read: cats).