I’m sitting in the spinning black chair, my feet on the metal foot rest, scrolling social media mindlessly. I’m waiting for the freshly applied color to transform my gray roots to a close approximation of the hair color of my youth.

A young hairdresser is excitedly talking to her client as she trims his white hair, just a booth over from me.

She’s buying her first home – a townhome.

Her client grunts and says “yes” at the appropriate pauses.

She’s excited to get out of her rental apartment.

He asks her how much for this new home.

“$300k” is her response, immediately followed by revelation it is built by a well known builder of shoddy homes.

The man is concerned. I can hear it in his voice. He’s older, and gently goes into a fatherly conversation mode.

She continues, nonplussed.

He counters that he once had one of these homes by that builder, and gently explains all the issues. He frames it in a way for her to be sure to check every aspect of this home before they sign.

I’m cringing. I understand her excitement, even as I know she’s being ripped off, and worse.

She walks him to the register, telling him how the builder is rushing them to sign on the dotted line.

I know so much, yet I am outside her world. I wish I could save her.

She wouldn’t hear a thing, though.

She’s too happy. And young.

I didn’t hear a thing either when I was her age. I made the mistakes, letting my excitement override better judgement.

I rise to get my hair rinsed, the new color absorbed into all the gray hairs that I have earned over the years.

I’ve earned every single one.