 |
| The Boy with Pink Hair* |
This past Monday I was finishing up my grocery shopping at Kroger, and as I rolled along down the main aisle toward the
"Asshole," I muttered under my breath. Or maybe I said it aloud. I say it so often. I started having a brief, but satisfying, daydream about chasing him down and running over him with my cart, but I was interrupted.
Another young man walked up beside me as I got my full cart underway again and said, "What a fucking world, huh? Can you believe that?"
I looked over at him. Clean-cut, dark hair, preppy yellow button-down shirt like a young Republican. Early to mid-twenties. My first thought was that he'd seen the other guy almost hit me and he was lending support. But really! Language, sir. You don't know me, even though I did just call someone an asshole and I might have said it out loud.
So I kind of nodded and said, "Uh huh" in my most non-committal tone. I wasn't there to make friends.
"I mean, look at that. Why? What a fucking world." He pointed to his head and nodded toward the asshole.
Oh. The guy had pink hair. I hadn't noticed. So it was about the pink hair, not about my inconvenience. I lost interest. I gave him a frowny WTF look and shook my head. First, because who gives a shit about the color of some asshole's hair. And second, because who uses such profane language with a strange woman who is old enough to be his grandmother? He didn't know I swear like a pirate. I could have been offended by more than his assumption that I'd agree with his toxic masculinity!
I'm not sure he saw my look of distaste though, because he had pulled ahead of me and was honing in on his next victims: a woman in her 40's and her older teen daughter, who were pushing a cart from the other direction.
"Did you see that?" he said, pointing at the pink-haired dude. "I mean, what the fuck is up with that?"
The mom laughed and said, "Yeah, we did. In fact, my daughter just said ..."
He ran right over her -- not literally. "I don't fucking get it. I mean, I'm a man and I enjoy being a man, so I don't need to..."
I turned a corner and walked away. No way I wanted to walk through or around that conversation. I was in a red-neck area of town anyway and I don't tend to engage in unwinnable arguments with strangers there.
As I looked at makeup I had no intention of buying, I could hear them talking and laughing, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. Finally it got quiet and I turned my cart around to leave. As I did the mother came around the corner with her cart. "Man," she said. "He had a lot to say."
"He sure did," I replied. He'd brought us together. We were now family.
I continued to the checkout lines, past the self-check, and guess who was in one of the lines. Mr. Smug. He looked up, smiled and nodded like we were becoming friends. If this were a movie, he'd somehow follow me home. I gave him stone face and turned into a different line. And then realized I'd forgotten something.
By the time I came back, Mr, Smug had changed lanes and now was in the lane I'd been in before. Grilled Cheezus I was getting tired of his smug face and friendliness. I walked past him, ignoring him again when he turned around and smiled, and turned into the lane he'd been in before. I was so ready to get out of there.
As I pulled my cart up to the conveyor belt I looked at the cashier and what a surprise! She had turquoise hair. I could only assume that almost-blue hair on a woman offended Mr. Smug. I mean if boys can't wear pink hair, it stands to reason that girls can't wear blue. Whatever. I didn't ask him. I checked out and by the time I was done, Mr. Smug was nowhere in sight. Probably out looking for other colorful hair to judge. Asshole.
I just don't get why Mr. Smug cared about the color of the other guy's hair. The polar ice caps are melting, species of animals and insects are becoming extinct every day, California is on fire, and here in Dayton we endured a KKK march, 15 tornadoes at once, a mass shooting, and a visit from Not-My-President Trump all in one summer. After all that the only thing that bothered him was some pink-dyed hair. What a fucking world indeed.
I wonder though if I should have handled it differently. Should I have engaged him in an earnest, yet pointed, conversation about the dangers of certain gender norms? Should I have told him he was being an inconvenient asshole? Did I miss an opportunity to educate him? To have some fun with him?
I don't know, but here's why I didn't. First, I had no evidence he was capable of change, nor that he would willingly engage in a dialog about what an asshole he was. Second, his behavior was unusual enough I didn't want to risk setting him off and turning his obvious anger on me. (See number 6 on last night's list.) I mean, how stable can a guy who walks up to strangers to dis another guy's hair be? And third, the guy with the pink hair had been an asshole to me. If we were going to talk about anything, I wanted to talk about that. Not his fucking pink hair. His assholery was the bigger concern.
So I didn't stand up for the pink hair. In the larger scheme of things, it probably doesn't matter. But I still fear (there's that word again) I missed an opportunity to wear my social justice warrior cape and correct a microaggression the victim didn't even know about.
What would you have done? Dig in and try to change him? Or ignore him like I did? Is this why my mom always said I think too much?
* I don't get a kickback for anything I post here. If I ever made a dime on this blog, I'd be sure to brag about it.
