Bad hair day

Facing the mirror hung in the station on the far side of the room I catch a glimpse of the reflection of the aging, bloated face, the narrow eyes, like slits cut in a melon, and the thinning hair being wrapped and pull through my stylist's brush. 

Instead I look at the ceiling and refocus my thoughts to the image I have of myself in my mind's eye. Then I look to the left for recollection of a happy moment. 

I save looking to the right for when I am a passenger in a car and I can set my gaze at two o’clock.

Looking in the mirror straight ahead is saved for when the stylist is completely done, and I feel I have recovered some self-dignity through the flirty attitude of my refreshed hair. 

I go down to the department store below and indulge in a purchase of brightly colored clothing to camouflage my mid-section and my indignation.