It's a haircut day, which means not only am I newly styled but tiny schnipples of hair are working their way under my shirt and sifting down to nestle under the straps of my bra so that they can dig into my tender flesh with enthusiasm. I don't think that my few dive shop customers would appreciate coming in to find me shirtless while I shake the hairs out the back door. Divers are tolerant but I think that's going a bit far. Maybe when I'm ready to be done with this job...
I took the red wool fingerless mitts out of my work backpack yesterday to wear when I was walking and neglected to put them back. Today I could use them; it's a bit chilly in here but I refuse to toots up the heat to warm up my digits. I'll just complain about it; that's warming, right?
September 30--Edouard Manet, The Garden Of Pere Lathuille. You see how he pleads his case? She is sitting there, erect (such good posture in a shopgirl), her spine so straight and her hands gracefully holding her peach, while he leans toward her, his arms wide as if to embrace her. The man is so young (nearly a boy) that his moustache looks thin and his face is unlined. He wears his work smock so easily and his cravat is carefully tied. He is pressing his suit, anyone can see it. If one could but hear his words. "I love you, je t'aime, cherie." His lips make a kiss when he speaks and his fingers grip his wineglass to keep from touching her in public. It is good that he has respect for her, doesn't shame her in public. In my day there would have been an auntie or a paid chaperon to guard the young woman's honor but in these modern times a girl must make do with a cafe waiter and a nosy old woman across the way with too much time on her hands, like me.
Did I mention that it's sunny and my fingers are cold? I'm sure I did. Enjoy your day.
--Barbara
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