White hair blue hair

The heritage oaks lining Henry Street block the August sun as I sip a morning coffee. Behind me, a woman with white hair scoots on a walker up the sidewalk. Across the street, a woman with blue hair dashes with a terrier through the crosswalk. The three meet on the corner.

“Beautiful day huh,” the blue hair woman says, “sun’s finally out.”

“That’s right,” the white hair woman says. “I woke up today.”

“That’s true,” the blue hair woman says, adjusting her backpack, “lots to be grateful for.” The terrier sniffs the sign post. “Hey, why don’t you swing by my store today, just come down the stairs and yell Lauren.”

The woman shifts her walker, cigarette between her fingers, wrist pads on her arms. “How about I yell hey, white girl?”

They both laugh. “That’s fine, I’ll answer to that.” She wipes her palm on her jeans. “Although I’d prefer white lady.”

“You got it,” the white hair friend says.

“See you soon,” the blue hair friend waves, tugging her terrier’s leash, continuing down the sidewalk, towards her shop.