Rich women who say so

I am rich. There are richer. Kinder. Better.
Never did I want to be rich. This identity is puzzling.
Just being me was the best. And I am still the best - I do need more reminders now.
I preserve one discoloured hair on my head and one above my knee. I am not greying, but browning. It's been eight months since the henna I infused with coffee overnight in my $ 50 cast-iron pan. After half an hour of agony at having my head resemble a Martian nightmare, off went the henna. Two more hours would have got my hair tinted like the iron pan if it were polished and sun-shined.
With my one colourless hair, peacock-yellow kurti, peacock-pink cuffs, dangly ice-pink earrings and ice-pink pendant on a black thread, I go to eat at Poison Ivy and meet the owner of the restaurant, as we are her only customers. She is poison, 59, peppery and woman of the soil(-ed singlet). She is poison to me as my birthday boy-man did not get a compliment from her, but she cooed and darlinged the other two men at my table. Grrr.
He must have been too much man for her.

Two mid-notes here:
Peacocks are not pink, but my pink was as cocky as it could get.
And shouldn't I be glad she did not coo at him? Well, if she were competition, I would be glad.

I listened squirming while she said how much of this miniscule country she had owned until the "Prim and Proper" govt (PAP, as in the smear) bought it at $1 for every square foot. How she did not have to earn her living. How she was president of a sporting group and would soon be the prime minister of Somepore. How she would not go to China as there were too many Chinese, or to India as there were too many Indians.
Obviously. She is neither one or the other, a Singh-Lim. Dagger-carrying frog in an equatorial well-island. Should I blog officially about her on my food site? My poison might show. Not afraid of her dagger. She should not have pointed out that she was wearing it. Some things are impressive when left unspoken.