Running Shoes

 Observation of a women in the salon. I was intrigued. Hope to put more emphasis on the shoes and their significance?

She wears white, Nike running shoes and sits up straight and tall, as best as she can, despite the rounded contour of her back, with her hands folded politely in her lap.

She wears no jewelry at all, except a thick, golden, diamond-studded band on the third finger of her left hand, which is a little too loose. I imagine it fitting perfectly on plump, youthful fingers fourty or so years earlier, when it first found its way to her. Although that ring is the only ornament she wears, her earlobes hang down heavily, proof of too many decorated evenings out, now in her past.

Her hair is thinning, and the color is fading into a pure white, dusted lightly with speckles of salt and pepper. Her part is a perfect line, extending from her forehead to the middle of her crown, separating her hair into two exact sections, each brushed down carefully and tucked neatly behind her ears, ending just at the nape of her neck.

There are bags under her eyes, puffy and wrinkled. The crevices in her skin trail down to her cheeks and lips, thin and pink, and finally to her neck, which disappears into a blue, cotton blouse, paired with white cotton Capri’s, matching perfectly with the blue and white running shoes she wears, out of which I can see just a glimpse of paper-thin skin covering two bony, fragile legs.

The running shoes are what intrigue me the most- so white and clean, obviously never used for their intended purpose. As she makes her way to the register, to pay for her haircut, she takes shaky, careful steps, each foot deliberately placed. Heel- toe. Heel- toe. She looks at her shoes, wiggling her toes in them every now and then, admiring them, as her ankles tremble under the stress of standing. Occasionally, she reaches down to retie the laces or straighten out the tongue just so, so conscious and protective of her running shoes, which, I am sure, were never bought to run in.