I Stopped Dyeing My Hair

In the late nineties my baby and I waited at the corner of Euclid for my husband to get out of class at UC Berkeley so we could go to dinner when a beautiful young woman walked towards us down Hearst Avenue. We were about the same age, twenty-seven or twenty-eight. She wore a plaid skirt and tweed jacket like somebody out of The Paper Chase and her long hair was shot with gray. I stood amazed, fraught with jealousy, horrified. By the time she passed us without even a smile for the baby, I had constructed an entire mythology surrounding her. She was…