The
Ponytail
Ponytail by Last Exit
Bank Holiday weekend – cars crawled round the car park searching
for a space and then their drivers crawled round the supermarket, queueing to
select their purchases, seeking the best bargains and hoping the fine weather
would keep. Harassed mothers towed small children, refusing their requests for
the sweet and sticky treats so temptingly displayed. Students sauntered along
the aisles, filling their baskets with bottles and cans of alcohol and
calorie-laden snacks. Lovers wound their arms round each other and ambled
around the vast emporium, oblivious to everyone else and preventing them from finding
the items they sought.
I was in a hurry. I had not intended going out to shop but my
grocery order had been delivered with some of the vital ingredients ‘unavailable.’
Most irritating, particularly as I had guests arriving for dinner in a few hours.
Having found everything, apart from water chestnuts, I looked
for the fastest-moving queue. Every check-out desk sported a long tailback of
shoppers anxious to unload their trolleys and get home to their barbecues,
their drinks parties, their assignations or simply their precious, limited time
off. Bank holidays are rare in the UK and each one is anticipated with
pleasure.
I joined a queue and began my usual pastime of covertly
scrutinising the purchases of my fellow shoppers. Then I began to watch the
people in front of me. Each trolley load was swiftly checked out – there was an
orchestra of beeps from the check-out desks. Surely the cashiers must hear them
in their sleep.
I focussed on the woman in front of me. She had the usual
array of tasty treats many people buy to pamper themselves – luxury chocolates,
a couple of bottles of good red wine, a glossy magazine and a fine selection of
fresh vegetables, fish and meat. I judged she had a family waiting for her to
return and cook a delicious meal. I noted her hair – expensively cut and
coloured and artfully arranged in a high ponytail, with loose tendrils curling
at the sides. Dainty diamond drop earrings threatened to tangle with them and I
watched to see if they would catch but they didn’t. At her neck was a silk
scarf, one end casually tossed over her shoulder, complementing her crisp
blouse. She was so slender! I glanced down at her feet, neatly shod in smart
loafers, her slim, pretty ankles just visible beneath the hem of her long,
flowing skirt. I looked at my own ensemble and felt shabby in my trainers and
gilet. I was envious. It seemed this young woman had all the time and money
required to be beautifully presented at all times. Her nails were manicured and
polished to perfection and adorned with beautiful rings. A gold charm bracelet
caught the light as she packed her items.
With the final things in her bags she turned to pay. With a shock I
realised, far from being young, she was a woman of very mature years. Suddenly
the hair and clothes seemed wrong, too young, not suited to her age. She caught
my eye and smiled as she said, ‘I could have worn purple, you know,’ and I blushed.
All the way home the words of Jenny Joseph’s poem went round
and round in my head. ‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red
hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me’ and I resolved to be less judgmental
in future.
Thanks to
Tess for this prompt. Go here to read other offerings.
