I was sitting on a bench near the station the other day, looking down, when a woman said, “Excuse me.”
I looked up and there was the usual moment of shock on her face, but she decided to persevere. “Do you know where the Origin bento shop is?”
“Yes, it’s just down that way,” says me. “Let’s go together.” I was about to head that direction anyway, so I got up but she just stood there looking at me for a moment.
“It’s just that…I thought you were Japanese.”
I reached up and touched my hair. “Even though I’m blonde?” Granted, it’s gotten closer to mousy brown as I’ve gotten older, but still.
She shrugged and said, “There are lots of blondes around these days.”
That’s true enough, but that means the poor thing was expecting someone young and hip, not a middle aged foreign woman. On the other hand, I like the idea that I can pass for young and hip…as long as you can’t see my face.
You may catch me harping on the age thing in coming months. The big 50 is looming and we are not pleased.