Dialog with Neighbor Girl

On the afternoon of the opera, I was adjusting the Wanna wig. I was working with the wig on the wig form and created a carefully artless Elvis-Presley-Michael-Jackson spit-curl by my right eyebrow. I carried it to the bathroom, plunked it on my head, and was evaluating if it was too precious when I had to go get the mail.

This lead me into the path of a four-year old neighborhood girl.

Girl: Is your hair a new color?

Me: No, my hair is still dark brown, but this wig I’m wearing is lighter.

Girl: What’s under your wig?

Me: (pulls off wig) See?

Girl: YOU look like a GRANDMA!

Me: Well, I’m old enough to be a grandma. I’m sixty.

Girl: I’m four.

And then she held up four fingers, and I realized I would need to recruit five neighbors to have enough fingers to calculate my age.

At least she wasn’t traumatized when my hair came off.