The dark-haired young girl with the heavily drawn on eyebrows is scanning my groceries by feel.
I know this because the only time she actually looks at my groceries is with a glance to her left to grab another item. Mostly, she is looking at me.
By the time the scanner has beep-beeped its final beep and my docket is slithering up and out of the cash register, I've mustered enough courage to ask: "Is there something ..? Did you want to ask me ... something?" (this seemed a more subtle approach than frowning and demanding: "What are you staring at?").
She has the decency to look embarrassed - but only a little bit.
I am smiling warmly to ensure she feels comfortable enough to answer honestly. This tactic works.
"It's your eyebrows," she says, a little shyly. "They are dark. They are black. The hair is black."
(the words are tumbling out of her mouth now and she's almost repeating herself). "Your hair is so grey, (nodding and pointing with her eyes to the hair on my head), but your eyebrows .... they're not. There is no silver hair in your eyebrows ..."
This last sentence is said with a rising lilt; a definite question-mark at the end.
The very young girl with the heavily drawn-on eyebrows (yes, I know I've said that before, but I'm still perplexed as to why her every eyebrow hair has been plucked out) is questioning the authenticity of my brows' colour.
I am still smiling warmly as I stroke my finger tips across my eyebrows, showing her no colour comes off; my brows are not penciled. And, my smile grows to a grin when I pick up my grocery bag and cheerfully tell her I was born brunette and I am still a brunette. Other than on my head.