In Which Our Looks Are Recognized
Yesterday, we took the bus to a steakhouse for our anniversary lunch. A guy got on about halfway through and told us, “Wow! You look like you’re from the 60s. And you’re from the 70s!” It’s true; Just’In was dressed in his red-and-black flame shirt, open hawaiian-shirt style to a black shirt, with his black leather Ivy cap, sunglasses, and almost-matching red cane. This guy placed Just’In as 1968. I had my hair down with a morning glory in my hair. I was wearing jeans, a grey/purpleish-colored shirt, and a black belt– nothing 70s in my clothing, but it was probably the really long, wavy hair, the flower, and my purple sunglasses that swoop upwards on the ends that made him place me in 1972.
He then gave us the entire shpeal of an oldies radio station. It went something like, “KULS: your favorite oldies from the 60s, 70s, and beyond.” He had the radio voice and all the intonations and timing right. Apparantly he either DJs for that station, is a janitor for that station, or just loves listening to it. He then pointed at Just”In and said, “The Who.” Then pointed at me and said, “The Doors.” He did this several times, placing a band of the time period in which we belonged upon each of us, waiting in between for a laugh or a look of recognition. He got those laughs, but when we got off the bus, I said to Just’In, “He would probably be classified as one of the crazies that buses are generally known to have.”
Later at work, I was ringing up the few purchases of a little girl who often comes in. Her mom is always sick, and she lives right around the corner. I think she might have been the same little girl who was eyeing me at our first Pioneer Day celebration. But I could be wrong. She paid in lots of loose change, which isn’t unusual at a dollar store, and as I was counting it out, she told me, “You have pretty nails. They’re real, and they’re not too long.”
I told her, “Thanks. I’ve been growing them out like this since I was in the seventh grade.”
As I hand her a receipt, she tells me, “And your braid is coming undone.”
“That’s okay,” I told her. “My hair’s long enough that the braid will stay in.”