My shoes are old and frayed around the soles. A lot like me. Frayed soles, frayed souls, my granny used to say. She noticed a man’s shoes before she noticed anything else about him, his eyes or his suit or even his hair. When I was young, I wore cap toe oxfords, spit polished. Now I wear whatever I can find in the church charity bin.
I’m proud of my hair, though. You got worth if you got good hair, is what I always say. I’m not one of those old geezers who comb a few leftover wisps of sad gray over a bald skull. Not me. I’ve got a full head. Thick and strong. It’s steel gray and been that way since I was twenty two. Haven’t felt a woman’s hands in my hair since…let’s just say it’s been a long, long time. But I see them look at it, the meals-on-wheels ladies, the district nurse. I see their fingers aching to stroke it. Until they look down and see my shoes. Continue reading
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