Today one of my clients told me the story of Laurel. I never had the chance to know her–she died before I even heard her name–but I am certain I would have loved her. I heard only snippets of her story. She was in her prime during the days when mobsters drove hulking black sedans and gunned down whoever crossed them with less remorse than most of us have for clipping a robin in flight or mowing down a squirrel.

Laurel was the girlfriend of some powerful mobster whose name, or even domain, I didn’t learn, so I’ll call him Nick. Nick flaunted the gorgeous and sexy Laurel on his arm while she flaunted her bosom, her dark eyes, and her astonishingly red lips until the day that Nick decided his one true love had ratted on him. She may or may not have, but Nick was sure she did. Or at least sure enough to have her shot up and left for dead in some neglected alley.

But Laurel was made of tougher material than Nick suspected. She hung on until a Good Samaritan came along and took her to the hospital where she was patched up and sewn back together. Realizing that second chances don’t come by that often, Laurel ended her mob connection and got a new boyfriend, but she kept the spirit of the original Laurel for the rest of her days. Despite eye rolls and whispers and snorts from an unappreciative community, she told her mob stories, dressed in off-beat, gaudy outfits, and wore her astonishingly red lipstick on her wrinkled lips until the day she died, a few weeks ago at the age of 70-something.

I am entranced by people who dare to be original. With all their kits-and-caboodles of problems, their tattered and misshapen histories, they remain true to themselves through it all.  A light shines within those people. We should all have that courage to be ourselves. We should all shine with such light.