Someone grabbed my purse while I stood in line at Tim Horton’s today with my bromate. Well, not a grab, really, more of a tug on the strap. I whipped my head around, ready for confrontation, and a very young white woman said “Hey, I just wanted to compliment you on your hair.” I checked my purse (still zipped shut) (who the hell touches someone’s PURSE to get their attention?) and looked back at her. “Yeah,” she continued. “I’ve never seen it done that way before.” By this point, I was starting to warm to her. She was obviously very perceptive. “I really like it,” she said, and I tossed my pink-and-purple curls casually, getting ready to smile. And then she delivered the kicker: “It’s really tasteful!” And my smile froze. I remembered my manners, and thanked her, then turned away before my eyebrows hit my hairline. It didn’t help that my brother was trying hard to suppress a grin. I mean, “tasteful”? Why don’t you just finish me off and say “elegant,” already? The bromate actually snickered and tried to disguise it as a cough, but I was not fooled.
On the way out of the Tim’s, though, my brother pointed out that the woman had an eight-inch Frankenstein tattoo on her calf. It made me feel much better. Because taste is relative.