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September 30, 2005
Hair Stories III
The Thanksgiving of my freshman year of college saw me on the road, driving the 800-odd miles from Lookout Mountain to my hometown, a place that I label quite confidently The Cultural Center of Oklahoma, Bartlesville. The day turned into night, and I drove on, and on, and on.
The road keeps going, and so I follow.
Around 10pm, I needed to revitalize the brain and limbs, so I took a promising exit based off of the friendly-looking gas station signs. I settled on a Flying J truck stop in Arkansas. I got out, filled up, stretched, jumped jacks, and finally moseyed into the store. I beelined to the beverage section and picked my beverage of the time, SoBe.
For the record, I was drinking that stuff back in 1997, which makes me cooler than you.
As I was selecting, before the glass door obscures with condensation, I catch the reflection of the lady at the register checking me out. This was not unusual back in the day. I mean, I played soccer in high school, worked out regularly, and had long brown hair down to my neck. I was pretty studly, back in the day.
A youngish face, I thought, and upon turning heel and approaching the counter I had to take away a few epistemic credibility points from my senses. Rather matronly, in fact. Bishop Berkley smiled from heaven.
So I pay for gas, the SoBe, and say "please", "thank-you", and "ma'am", just like a good Midwestern boy. As we finished the transaction, she holds her gaze and asks, "Honey, you probably get asked all the time, but can I touch your hair?" And she did.
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