Silver-haired beauty

—“I keep running into you,” I said to a pretty lady in my supermarket.
She had long flowing silver hair.
“This is the third time,” I said.
“Every time I see you I wonder if your hair-color is real.”
“Oh I wish it were,” she said.
“The reason I ask,” I said; “is because my kid-sister in VA is letting her hair go gray.
And she’s rather assertive about it; like it’s the coming thing: a statement against the common male misperception that a lady has to dye her hair to remain attractive.”
We were at the hot soups kiosk, soup for consumption in a nearby eating nook, or to take home in a cardboard container.
“I was thinking of letting it go gray,” she said, as she ladled some turkey concoction into a cardboard container.
I considered rendering the old vegetarian waazoo that “no turkey should hafta sacrifice its life,” etc. etc.
“They don’t have it,” I said instead. I had been looking for lentil chili to take home.
“See ya later!” I said as I walked away.
“Nice meeting you,” she said.
What’s notable is I said anything to her at all. Ten years ago I wouldna, but things are different since my wife died.
Some of my readers complain I celebrate too much about breaking free of 70+ years of “no pretty lady will associate with you!”
Another friend tells me I’m not flirting; that all I’m doing is striking up a conversation.
She’s right, but the fact I struck up a conversation tells that lady I considered her attractive enough to strike up a conversation.
Striking up a conversation is rare, especially with pretty girls.
That pretty girl loves that I found her attractive enough to strike up a conversation, yet I ain’t hittin’ on her.
So that silver-haired beauty can you go home and tell her husband/boyfriend/main-squeeze/whatever some aging bum struck up a conversation with her based on her pretty hair.
Yes, her hair gave me an opening line, and she definitely was not a Harley mama.
(I doubt I could strike up a conversation with a Harley mama — no smokers, no drinkers, no gamblers, no sluts or slatterns; only classy ladies.)
I hoped I’d meet her one more time as I left, saying “there you are again.” (I didn’t.)
Saying that repeats something I did two weeks ago after striking sparks with another cutie pie.
They love when I do that, so “DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” says the little voice in the back of my head.
Let ‘em know you noticed = that you’re attracted to ‘em.
I had gone to that supermarket fully intending to not say anything to anyone.
But she was pretty; and I kept running into her.
Free at last from my 70-year fear of pretty ladies!

• My wife died almost nine years ago.