He keeps two strands on the bench, side by side.
One is new, finished this morning. The beads are pale as chalk, a little dry to the touch, and they click against each other with a light, quick sound.
The other is his own. He has worn it for years, counted on it in the early hours, pushed it up his sleeve to work. The same kind of bead, but no longer the same color. The edges have gone honey, and in places the color of strong tea. The high points shine softly where his thumb passes. The grooves between the beads have stayed darker, like the lines in a palm.
Nothing was added to make this happen. That is the part he likes.
Bone was once living, and it is full of tiny pores. Worn against the skin and turned in the hand day after day, it slowly takes in the natural oils of your skin and the small polish of use. Flecks and grain that were faint at first come forward. The surface loses its dryness and gains a low glow. People call this patina. It is simply time, made visible.
How fast it happens depends on you: your skin, your climate, how often you reach for it. It comes slowly and unevenly, on its own schedule, and no two strands age alike.
Many people who use a mala every day come to prefer the worn one, the one that already knows their hands.
If you want yours to age well, wear it. Wipe it now and then with a soft, dry cloth. Keep it out of long soaks, and let perfume and lotion settle on your skin before the beads touch it.
He lifts the new strand, weighs it in his palm, and passes it to the one who will wear it first.