I’m standing at the cash register at Publix making small talk with Miranda, my senior-aged cashier with blue hair. I have a lot of fond memories of little old blue-haired women in my life. They are the kind who pinch the cheeks of little boys and leave red lip marks on the rim of their coffee cups at Cracker Barrel.

But Miranda doesn’t fit that image. She’s possibly a little younger than me. I know better than to ask. Her hairstyle is not puffy. She has the body style that goes with the women of my memories, but the hair is more rock-n-roll. Her cut reminds me of Rod Stewart.

Her shade of blue is also different. It’s not a dark blue like I’ve seen some of the teenagers wear. It’s not a flashy blue at all. It’s more subtle. A lot of the silver shows through, mixed in with streaks of robin egg blue. It’s like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to keep it grey or die it blue, so she has both.

The little old women I knew had a faint hint of blue that permeated every hair. The color came from the chemicals in the hair rinse they used. The rinses were supposed to hide the yellow of aging hair. Those rinses promised a more noble and graceful silver hue. They should have looked regal.

Instead, the ladies I remember had the appearance of having had a bad day at the salon with traces of blue that sometimes leaned toward purple. I always thought that maybe they didn’t mean for their hair to be blue.

When I would ask my mama why “Miss Flora” had blue hair, I was told that it was not polite to criticize a woman’s hair. So, I’m not being critical of Miranda, just observant.

She and I had some extra time to chat because we were having a disagreement over the price of cheese. She rang it up at regular price. I pointed out that it should be a BOGO deal. We waited as another lady went off to check out my story.

“Slow night for the middle of the week,” I said.

“I know it. It’s not this slow very often.”

“I’m glad it’s slow. I hate holding up the line for a price check.”

“Don’t worry about it, Hon’. These cash registers can be wrong sometimes.”

I always smile when a sweet southern soul calls me, Hon’. I half expected her to reach over and pinch my cheek. But then I remember I’m not a cute little 10-year-old. I’m a full-grown, grey-haired, card-carrying, Medicare-advantaged male with feet that hurt more days than not.

Miranda and I talked about grandkids, the price of groceries, and the weather. We talked so long that we began to speculate that our price-checker got lost in the store on the way to the cheese cooler.

One of the things that I have learned with age is that patience is a virtue that serves me well. There was a time when, as a youthful idiot, this whole episode might have gone differently. I might have been more demanding, more annoyed, more insulted.

“How dare she question me about the price?”

I’ve been that guy. And I don’t like that guy.

All it takes is for somebody to have the attitude that his perspective is more accurate, his time is more valuable, and his needs are more important. A cashier gets berated. A waitress gets cussed at. The fella behind the counter gets both barrels.

I’m not saying that I’ve got this down pat. I used to have to remind myself to be patient with people. I’d have a conversation in my head, telling myself not to make a big deal out of nothing.

But I have mellowed with age. Maybe all those Sunday School lessons are finally sinking in. Not much gets me stirred up at this point in life. I have chosen a different path.

Small talk is better than a silent stare. A smile is better than a huff and a roll of the eyes. And sometimes you just have to decide that the price of cheese is not worth the argument. I like my BOGOs, but not enough to make a stink over one.

I don’t know Miranda, but I know that she’s somebody’s mother. I know that at her age, she’s coming into work at 6pm rather than having a nice supper at home with her family. I know that she’s got loved ones that she worries about. I know that she has bills to pay. I know that she’s doing what she has to do to get by in this world.

The Mirandas in life deserve my best effort. They don’t program the computer behind the register. They don’t decide which items are on sale. They just greet old guys like me and try to bring a little friendly conversation into my day.

“It shouldn’t be too much longer, Hon’,” she says to me.

About that time the other lady walks up to the register with my pack of cheese in her hand.

“Somebody put the BOGO sign in the wrong place,” she says.

I grunt silently to myself because my old ways die hard.

“But I’m gonna run it back through at the BOGO price for you anyway.”

Miranda is all smiles. “See there, Hon’. Good things come to those who are patient.”

She and I exchange a few more pleasantries. She hands me a receipt long enough to use as wallpaper. And I roll my buggy out through the exit door.

It’s late, almost 9pm. The cool air of the store gives way to the suffocating humidity of the parking lot. I forgot to bring a cold bag for my refrigerated items. Good thing I didn’t buy any ice cream for the ride home. I hope the frozen seasoned fries don’t turn to mush.

All the way home I’m thinking about how many people we bump into over the course of time. All the strangers that come and go. We might get a name. We might not. But each time we cross paths, we have a chance to step into their world.

Maybe those encounters make a difference. Maybe all we offer is a kind word that seems insignificant at the time, but which may be the only kindness they get that day. Maybe they brighten our spirit. Maybe they call us Hon’ and make us smile.

I know some folks will say, why bother. You’ll never see them again. They don’t know you. They’re just another stranger who doesn’t mean anything to me.

But what would happen if we said to ourselves that everyone matters? What if we took a chance and called people by their name? What if we all reached down somewhere inside that old heart of ours and offered up a piece of ourselves that doesn’t cost us anything?

I know. Some days it’s hard. We have a lot on our plates and we’re busy. Sometimes the other person really is a jerk, which makes it even harder.

But sometimes you break through.

And every now and then, you get free cheese.