I was squinting at the eye pencil display in Sephora when she sidled up to me.
Close to 60, her graying hair pulled back in a neat low ponytail, she appeared to be Hispanic. She introduced herself as of being of an American Indian tribe, rattling off her lineage.
"I can see that you are a young woman, but you have an old soul."
I was stunned.
"Your colors are red, green, and gold."
My jaw gaped.
Score one for the first, slam-dunk on the second. I'm such a boring plodder that people who are thirty years my senior think I should have more fun. My favorite colors are red and green—I had actually been wearing red shoes—but no sign of green at all. Plus I love yellow gold; I think it is a much more flattering compliment to the bilious undertones of my skin, as opposed to silver shades.
Satisfied that her darts hit their target, she continued: "Have you ever had a psychic reading?"
Ah. "Thank you, but my religion doesn't allow it," I replied as politely as I could.
"I respect that," she said, then vanished. Probably to find a new mark.
Familiarity with Sherlock Holmes and the basic method of con-men, I know that it is possible for some to observe someone and make correct conclusions, Ouija board aside.
But I still wonder . . .