Yesterday, relieved for lunch, I dropped down to my locker to get my lunch and tea mug. A pretty woman in scrubs is primping - no other word for it - in the mirror. I see her teal suede style purse on the bench, and roll my eyes out of her line of sight. Not that she looked anywhere but her own reflection. I open the lock, get my stuff together, she is still fussing at her hair and hat in the mirror.
"I look so silly in this hat," she simpers at me, clearly expecting sympathy, perhaps a bit of girl-talk. I have a brightly colored fabric hat because they are more comfortable, hold my hair back better, don't have elastic leaving a mark across my forehead, and at forty hours a week, don't dry my hair so much as the blue paper bouffants. I don't wear them for fashion. "You know what I mean."
"No, I don't," and, afraid she will explain, "I really don't," and rush out before she can make another attempt at engagement. All the time I am thinking, I thought you were silly right off, and that ain't got nothin' to do with the hat, honey. Only then do I wonder if she is one of the inspectors.
One of the Post Secret cards this past weekend was from a woman afraid to go out without make-up. The feedback page is likewise full of woman fixated on make-up as a necessity in their lives. It's all so emotionally illogical, no reasonable rationale is given. Make-up is simply what is done, like corsets of a century ago. To such an extent that I wonder if there is not some kind of anxiety disorder beneath it.
Later, more on this later.