SPOTTED RECENTLY in Bed, Bath, & Beyond: A dapper, bow-tied gentleman wearing wool slacks made of four different plaids (perhaps this is a winterized version of those hideous madras patchwork shorts sold in outdoorsy catalogues?). He looked exceedingly pleased with himself. In front of me on the bus: A woman with café au lait skin and a shaved head—except for a roundish zone on the crown that bore a five-inch crop of wavy blond hair. Large hoop earrings helped make her appear less scalped. Passing me on the bizarre streets of New York: A postwoman with bright red hair (I’m talking Raggedy Ann) under her official cap. A lady whose ponytail was striped fuchsia and gray and whose outfit—I use the word advisedly—sported all sorts of fringe, ruffles, and fuzz and was largely in shades of pink, including her sneakers.
Which reminds me: I think that older people, even really strange older people, match colors way, way too much. The effect is desperate and overly planned. It’s ageing. I have that tendency, too; these days I am trying hard to blend rather than match. Or surprise myself by throwing in an earring or scarf or shoe in an unexpected and even clashing shade.