I watch it happen at the counter. She reaches for the grey, the navy, the shapeless safe thing, and when I hold up a cardigan with real colour and pattern knitted into it, she says, "Oh, I couldn't. Not at my age." And I want to take her hand and tell her the truth: the reason nobody's told you that you look lovely in a while isn't you. It's that we've all been handed nothing worth a second glance.