Grey Hair and Carhartts

 

It was cold. Freezing, perhaps, but probably not. The wind was what was making it cold, not the temperature. Wrapped up in a coat, scarf, hat, and gloves, I knew I was just another anonymous “woman of a certain age,” grey hair peeking out from under my green knit cap. My dog, oblivious to the cold, took her time. Also “of a certain age,” she was allowed many concessions, including stopping to sniff at every leaf pile, tuft of grass, signpost, and yes, fire hydrant. Our walks around the block were never quick and almost legendary in the neighborhood. In warmer weather, people would call to us from their yards, commenting on our slow progress. Rhoda’s white face and slow gait left no one guessing that she was an old dog, and the neighbors’ comments-- although sometimes annoying-- were always kind.

This morning, there was no one out in their yards. Well, almost no one. Nearing the corner, I saw a man loading his yard roller onto a trailer that was hitched to a not-so-new pickup truck. As we got closer, I could see that he, too, was “of a certain age,” and wore camouflage pants, work boots, and Carhartts. A sucker for Carhartts, I decided to speak to him when we got close enough; he surprised me, though, by speaking first. “Hey there!” he said with a wave. I noticed a grey beard and friendly eyes on his weathered face. “Good morning,” I replied, being pulled to an abrupt halt by Rhoda’s need to sniff a suspicious spot along the curb. “Walks on cold mornings are a challenge with her,” I went on, feeling the need to explain. “We just don’t go as fast as we used to.”

“I was going to ask how The Boss was doing,” he grinned and walked over to stand in the street and talk. He asked if Rhoda would mind being petted, and I said she was pretty shy, so probably not. He accepted that and began a story about his dog. Slowly, Rhoda came over to where he was, nose outstretched to sniff his hand, which I noticed he’d extended a bit, though he didn’t even look at her. Smart man!

After chatting a bit more, he said good-bye and I started off, too. The best exit would’ve been for me to walk down the street, dog trotting alongside, but we only got a couple of feet before we stopped for yet another sniff. So much for my exit.

On the way home, I mulled over the men whom I find interesting these days. Never young, handsome men (although I still appreciate a toned body), but those with a face that has life written on it, hair that is or is starting to turn grey, working hands, a quick smile and evidence of humor, these are the qualities that will make me look twice. Funny how I have a difficult time believing the same for them: That there were men out there to whom character, intelligence, humor, and kindness were more important than physical looks. Surely, I argued with myself, there was a man out there who would appreciate my laugh lines, grey hair, and soft body. Someone who would consider me the perfect partner despite my refusal to try and pretend I wasn’t as old as I was.

I helped Rhody up the steps and into the house, where she accepted a liver treat, took a long, noisy drink of water, and then collapsed with a heavy sigh on the carpet. I, too, got a drink and sat down with a sigh to reflect on the man with grey hair and Carhartts.