It wasn't your hair, highlighted pink, completely unruly, decorated with fake roses. You are just amazing. The open-faced turkey sandwich (with gravy), and your highlighted, flowered head were in competition for attention, but neither matched your incomparable joie de vivre. Your wrists were circled by pink quartz. Your shirt featured pink flowers on a white background. Your shoes were white, and pink. I still don't know your age. Forties? Late forties? That's how you looked-- that's how you seemed-- reading the paper while my Oma and I had our meal.
I encourage you to continue not giving a fuck. Dye that shit pink. Crochet, or whatever crafty thing it is you do to make yourself feel arty. You are way ahead of us.