Friday, 08 October 2004 | Black crown

I'm pretty sure she lives in the apartment nearest to the door of my building. She's stout, Puerto Rican, and matronly, and her age is really hard to gauge—maybe 60? She's often standing on the stoop (come to think of it, I never see her sitting), and I have a feeling that she knows most of the people on my block. Somehow, she seems to be the block's mother.

A friend of mine works next to my building at his girlfriend's vintage shop. He sits outside the shop all day long, smoking cigarettes and playing with the neighborhood kids after they get home from school. Whenever I observe him being part of my block (talking to and joking with the people he encounters), it makes me feel a little bit envious or sad or introverted, because most of my neighbors are strangers to me.

Anyway, the woman. She smiles at me, even if we barely speak, and she holds the door for me when I'm carrying my bike. I like her, even though I don't know her at all.

Every day she wears the same black scarf, wrapped around her head kind of like a chef's hat. She must have a lot of hair under there, based on the shape of her black crown. I wonder if anyone else ever gets to see it, or if she keeps it only for herself, coiling it up in privacy each morning.

At this point, it would be a little disconcerting to see her with actual hair, instead of the black cotton cylinder. To me, her hair is made of cloth.