It occurred to me that I should ask her what color she thinks my hair is. She was looking at it. I don’t give it much thought, except for the grey wiry bits that jump out in fluorescent light, which I enjoy for their bold acrobatics and clear identity.
It’s like the other day when the doctor asked me how much I weigh and how tall I am. I was unable to say. “Tell me in English,” she said, but language was not the problem. Surely these numbers were in my file?
Along with my wrist-slash burn mark, I grow concerned that there’s an undertaker somewhere taking my measurements. It really is time to shred those old journals that give me so much concern.