It's funny how a touch of henna can make my day better. (Side note: my mom told me she used to do a "henna rinse" to make her hair reddish. "Rinse" is a euphemism; you are actually creating a vaguely gross-looking paste to spread on your hair and leave on for a couple of hours.) However, it works magic. If I go too long between applications, I start to feel like a grey-streaked beast and my self-esteem plummets. After I've put it on...ta-dah!...my hair is dark brown ALL THE WAY TO THE ROOTS and I no longer feel like a grandmother. (Not that there is anything wrong with grandmothers, I'd just rather not feel like one when I'm 31 and don't even have any children.)
D and I hit the Strand tonight, where I got a bunch of books (all half-price), including Posh by Lucy Jackson, The Yummy Mummy by Polly Williams (complete with a preening author photo that proclaims, "I am a yummy mummy!" but I just thought, "Good for her!"), and Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis, who used to write for Letterman.
As we passed a certain Starbucks in our cab, I saw this guy who is always there. "Maybe he has a passion for coffee," D suggested. He usually sits near the front window, sometimes coming out to stand on the sidewalk. He always wears a striped sweater and a sad look. I wonder what his story is; I'm sure he has one.