Imagine being sixty-something and having lips like that: blood red and ornamental to a confident dignity. She tames her long black hair and its wide silver streak into a neat bun at the base of her crown. Around the rest of her was today's silk, crisply folded into a two-dimensional masterpiece.

Her breath presses with more weight than her touch, and yet long flowing fabric yields into tucked folds until you too have your own brilliant carapace. So easy! As if sole kindness could clothe you.

She's the latest in the family line, and someday her daughter will replace her. For now, the young beauty remains demure and relegated to the less-serious customers. She does not touch the books, and her lips are unpainted.