Gentlemen Prefer Cancer Patients
Yesterday at the grocery store, I counted seven (7!!) random people who approached me for no particular reason to kindly inquire about my well-being.
"How're you doing today!" chirped the front door greeter who has studiously ignored me for the past seven years. "You doing all right?"
"Good morning!" said the guy in the produce department who has never given me a second glance, or possibly even a first glance, during his entire tenure in the grocery stocking business. "You okay today? Can I help you find anything?"
"How are you?" asked the normally hostile checker in that hushed, reverent, solicitous voice often used to convey an excessive degree of compassion and concern to occupants of the deathbed.
My first reaction was, Well shit. I would have tossed that damn wig a long time ago if I'd known people were going to be this kind to me. All the wig ever did was make me invisible. Without it, I'm suddenly the belle of all earthly solicitude.
But then I started to consider other possibilities. Yeah, it could be that everybody was suddenly making such a fuss over me because they believed I was about to keel over dead from cancer any second now. But then again perhaps the store manager had instituted a new hyper-friendliness policy that had just gone into effect. Or maybe they all thought I was a rabidly violent radical lesbian militant nazi skinhead who needed to be carefully handled with kid gloves lest I suddenly open fire with the Glock .380 I no doubt had concealed in my AA brassiere.
Or, I couldn't help but wonder, maybe, just maybe, could this be the way people always treat blondes? Well, wooo fucking hoo, then. Bring it on!
My new life as a ravishing hot sultry blonde