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She got on the train to Nice and sat in front of me, in her purple old sweater, four sizes two big and probably thirty years old (that is to say, half her age). She had messy, short grey hair that struck out at all kinds of impossible angles, lending her airs of gentle lunacy. As soon as she sat down, she produced from her bag a brush and a small plastic mirror, both of them pink, and touched up her hair with three or four light, random strokes. They had the curious effect of leaving her hair exactly as it had been before. She stowed the brush and the mirror back in the bag.

She smiled, satisfied. We all have silly rituals that make us feel at home.

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