Dr. Michelle Lifton moved like I expected. As someone who had spent their decades hunched over microscopes and petri dishes. I was told she was fifty-nine in a month's time, with *dyed* gray hair because she felt more respected that way than her still natural blonde.
Her hair is cropped short and practical, much more than my Kyrie's - but not as much as the chicken farmer sticking her knuckles into her own eye socket. A look I understood as the exasperation of an individual who had told another *not* to make a scene.
But I knew she would, so her words didn't shock me in the slightest. Nor would I possibly be overly defensive at this point. I've been dealing with scholars and mystics alike judging me for my vanity for thirty one years.
"The folly of youth may be in their impetuous decisions, but the wisdom of age only comes after parsing regrets in hindsight. Besides, I am eight years older in soul than what it says on my forged driver's license. Chai?"
