What happens when I let my hair down on a Friday night…
Walking the dairy aisle of the local grocery store one time, a young child of about 7 or 8 is staring intently at me, head craned 180 degrees as he’s walking forward, perhaps even gliding on those light up roller shoes that seem the rage with the youngsters these days.
Unbeknownst to him, the stylish, leather jacket clad woman directly in front of him stopped abruptly to compare butter prices. There were deals to be had, after all.
Possibly enchanted by my wild visage and free-flowing locks, he did not.
I’m not sure if it was ass to face or face to ass, but I will admit, I laughed out loud.
Our young protagonist, with nary a word, quickly scampered and/or slid away to join his blissfully unaware mother-figure who was further down the aisle, procuring what would be his future sustenance.
The leather jacket clad woman turned quickly on her clickity heels to cast a scathing look upon my jungly being. Her disdain for the posterior intrusion etched plainly for all to see, directed in all its fury squarely on me.
Until she immediately realized the wee little ginger did not belong to me.
Those crazy Friday nights…
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