Sixty-three Year Old Widow Refused to Hide Her Gray Hair at Work

down on the edge of the table.

“Well, now,” I said. “I am just myself, Arthur.”

“That is exactly what I meant,” he said, his spectacles catching the amber light from the window. “There is nothing better than that.”

On Monday morning, the Elm Street Diner was quiet, the smell of bacon grease and cheap coffee filling the narrow space between the booths.continue reading …