The photocopy lady has been behind the counter longer than the 17 years that I have been in my apartment. She seems to me to be aging in reverse. She began looking middle-aged, lumpy, and gnomed-shaped, with styling efforts that struck me as superfluous, like a comb-over to hide a balding spot or soy sauce to dress up a gluten cutlet. With time, her hair has become an appealing shade of auburn, her personal style striking and flattering, her roundedness more elongated, and the addition of small children at her side rejuvenating.
At work, she keeps a grave demeanor. Perhaps this is due to the occupational hazards she runs of immense boredom and inhaling the noxious emissions of her equipment. I can never stay inside that shop for more than a few minutes due to the chemical reek and que of zombies I slip into. Day in and day out, she takes paper, places it in machines and hits “copy.”
Perhaps her seriousness emanates from her crucial position of trust in our community. Much depends on her discretion and precision. For my part, I go to her at least twice a year to photocopy our medical insurance reimbursement claims. She is privy to my family’s most intimate health issues. If she bothered to look at what she was photocopying, she would know the state of our bowels, backs, genitalia, and psyches. If a single receipt goes astray, hundreds of euros may be lost. And she does this for perhaps .10 cents per sheet. I wonder what other responsibilities and confidences weigh down her slumping shoulders.
Yesterday, I noticed flakes of dandruff in her hair. I wanted to offer her my children’s fine-toothed comb to remove them. But that would require breaching the solemn respect of our relationship, the formality that protects my vulnerable condition and privacy as she conducts her profession. The photocopier is like an attorney with her clients, a doctor with her patients, a tax preparer with tax payers.
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