My favorite boy had just caught the train to the airport after visiting for a long weekend and I was walking up the sidewalk to my apartment. I washed my hair for the first time in a few days earlier that afternoon, but had left all post-hair-wash cosmetic responsibilities aside to make room for my post-favorite-boy wallowing. This left me approaching the outdoors with a plain face and a beanie barely containing the frizzy offsprings of wet, curly hair.

As I charged up the pavement with hopes of getting home quickly, an older one-legged woman wrapped in punk-tattered denim approached me from the opposite direction. Her face was scrunched in a toothless smile as she came closer on her cruthces until she called out to me:

ONE-LEGGED WOMAN: Heya toots! (She winks at me.)

ME: (Surprised, I react with a small smile and blush.) Hi.

ONE-LEGGED WOMAN: Looking good there. Spare any change?

ME: No, sorry.

I know better, but I’m flattered by her compliment and endeared that she called me “Toots.” This makes me feel better for the rest of the day.