I have to do something about my hair. Cut it. Dye it a darker colour. I don’t know. Something. Honest to God I can’t go anywhere anymore! And it’s driving me crazy.
I’ve been here since February. I’ve been out and about, walking for exercise, walking for errands, walking, walking, walking . . . but only in the past few weeks has anyone noticed. Every time I go out there are cars slowing, strangers tooting, men leering and whistling and calling out, “Hey lady!” I thought it was the hat. Then when it happened when I wasn’t wearing the hat, I thought maybe it was the black pants, the jean jacket, the leather backpack even. So I left all that stuff at home. And still the boy nearly falls off his bicycle in his zealous waving to get my attention. It’s the effing hair. Got to be. That’s all I got left.
The hair is long now. And thick. And blonde. And all spring, summer, early fall, it’s been up in a pony tail and I’ve been invisible, but now it’s loose and flowing and suddenly everybody and their dog is looking and pointing and wondering who the hell I am and will I have sex for money or just for kicks. This place has a bad case of Big Blonde Syndrome (BBS). PEOPLE! Please! Get a freaking grip!
It just annoys the crap out of me. Okay, yes, I admit, the first day it was kinda fun. And yeah, even the second day brought a little grin to my chapped lips. But having to race home with my heart pounding in my chest, terrified I’ve been followed by some lunatic manchild who may or may not be right the hell out of ‘er on lord knows what, not so much fun! And everything after, just perplexes me. I mean it’s not like I’m the skinny young chick with the bare midriff and the platinum blonde hair anymore. I’m out doing grocery shopping, eyes red and puffy with sinus infection, no make-up, bundled up in my big winter coat! I’m a black blob carrying WAY too many bags!
So why do people always follow ME home?! Like seriously. I don’t get it.
Ever since I was a kid . . . crazy street kid chasing me into the subway yelling “hey blondie!” Crazy Jamaican dude waiting for me at the bus stop every day for a week. Crazy boy with a 2-4 on his bicycle handlebars. Crazy man chasing me through the field from Sobey’s in Moncton. Everybody else lived there for freaking years, I’m there a few months, laying REAL low, I mean soooo low, yet I’m the one getting chased through the field. Crazy, crazy, crazy, everywhere I turn.
But you know, I’m older now. And . . . blobbier. I thought I’d put the crazies behind me. But nooooo, apparently they were only on vacation.
Mood: dripping in sarcasm
Drinking: cold coffee, water
Listening To: annie’s song, john denver