Don't knock the locks
I'm hoping this is an unlucky coincidence, but a lot of Edmontonian men seem to have issues with my hair.
So yesterday, I was walking through Chinatown when these two guys come up to me. "Excuse me," says one, "I have a question. My friend was checking out your ass, and thinks you're hot, but because you look so much like a girl I don't know if he's gay or not. Could you help me out?"
(Note: I am paraphrasing in a far more succinct and elegant tone than the guy was speaking in.)
"Well," I ask, how could he even see my ass? You guys were approaching me from the opposite direction."
"Still," he says, "he thinks you're hot. Is he gay?"
"Couldn't say. But thanks for the tip." And with that we shook hands and parted.
Hours later, wastinghours is dropping me off at my uncle's condo after a night of pleasant dinner and post-dinner conversation. Another guy approaches me, asking if I have a smoke, which I answer in the negative. "What, with hair like that, you don't have a smoke?"
Inwardly I asked, "What does that even mean?" Outwardly, I just said "No."
Guys, get a grip. I know for a fact that Alberta hasn't forgotten the 70s -- or at least the part about Pierre Trudeau being the devil -- so the era of long hair is not so far behind us that you can scorn my do today.
POSTSCRIPT: I am going to the Fringe Festival today. Good times abound.
So yesterday, I was walking through Chinatown when these two guys come up to me. "Excuse me," says one, "I have a question. My friend was checking out your ass, and thinks you're hot, but because you look so much like a girl I don't know if he's gay or not. Could you help me out?"
(Note: I am paraphrasing in a far more succinct and elegant tone than the guy was speaking in.)
"Well," I ask, how could he even see my ass? You guys were approaching me from the opposite direction."
"Still," he says, "he thinks you're hot. Is he gay?"
"Couldn't say. But thanks for the tip." And with that we shook hands and parted.
Hours later, wastinghours is dropping me off at my uncle's condo after a night of pleasant dinner and post-dinner conversation. Another guy approaches me, asking if I have a smoke, which I answer in the negative. "What, with hair like that, you don't have a smoke?"
Inwardly I asked, "What does that even mean?" Outwardly, I just said "No."
Guys, get a grip. I know for a fact that Alberta hasn't forgotten the 70s -- or at least the part about Pierre Trudeau being the devil -- so the era of long hair is not so far behind us that you can scorn my do today.
POSTSCRIPT: I am going to the Fringe Festival today. Good times abound.