I was fortunate to spend a late afternoon with my daughter earlier this year. We went to Apple Ginza. Bought her an Airpod, one of which she promptly lost. 14? Is there more to love?
I was fortunate to enjoy that father feeling of a bit of dosh in my pocket, burning for her grandmother.
After Apple, we went to a large department store nearby. One of the floors had women's wares.
She needed cosmetics. I asked if her mother let her wear cosmetics. A teenage me would have bought the most expensive Airpod. Not her.
The department store floor dedicated to cosmotology was expansive for a central Tokyo retail space. When we arrived, there was no clerk, and few if any customers. As we milled about, customers drifted in. Clerks appeared. The serene shopping experience, which is so much of Japan, flowed on the tide of millenia.
No one spoke. Had one spoken, they would have done so quietly enough for the rest of us to not hear. We drifted in and out. Steered only by our souls. The women gathered there were my women. Young women, not much older than my love. Looking at tangible objects that represent nothing more than a figment of our imaginations.
Women of my work. They know our cause. They will not fail us. Ever.
