Читать книгу The bride of the silver dragon онлайн

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Nana’s idea was a success after all.

I take two steps toward the rack with the mirror on the side of it and give myself a hard look. In my own homemade overalls, made from a dozen pairs of old and completely unrepairable jeans, a simple man’s shirt, and my hair tied up in a kerchief, I look like something in between a rabid “I am a mother” and a young Merlin Montreaux, when she, to prove to everyone that it is not clothes that make you beautiful, but people make clothes, had a photo shoot in a sack from under a potato.

So, objectively, at thirty-five, I look thirty at most.

I am happy with my form, which is lush in all the right places, a thin waist, no large wrinkles, and even those three gray hairs, which I discovered yesterday before going to bed. I found it, and I didn’t want to pull it out. If I am destined to go gray in my forties, I’d rather have a boyish haircut and be a bullying young grandmother than become hysterical and depressed over every white hair.

I use my finger to swipe a little chocolate cream on my cheek, and I’m completely satisfied with my appearance.