As I said yesterday: I have pink hair.
We all know that now.
In stark contrast to the hard-dyed-jet-black pepper pot I told you about yesterday were the little girls that I encountered in the supermarket yesterday. They appeared to be around five years old and although they looked distinctly Asian in a distinctly Asian suburb they were accompanied by a very blonde mommy figure.
It was in the middle of my trip home from work so there I was in all my glory, clad in bicycle Lycra, shopping basket on my arm and pink hair in an unruly mess because I was suffering from a bad case of helmet hair.
I was somewhere between looking for yoghurt and trail bars when I heard a loud voice belonging to a small person somewhere behind me.
“Oh my god! Mum! Pink Hair!”
It was followed by a hush.
“But mum! She has pink hair!” The little girl’s finger was firmly pointed in my direction until the mother hurriedly attempted to get the arm it was attached to returned to the side of the small girl it belonged to.
“We don’t point at people”, the mum whispered.
It was too late. The other two little girls had spotted me and now one of them was looking at me in utter amazement.
“Pink hair”, she sighed dreamily as if she had just realized a new fantastic possibility, “she is beautifoooooooooool.”
“She’s so pretty I’m gonna die”, the third little girl chimed in.
By this stage the mum had given up trying to control the three little girls’ open admiration for my hair and resigned to embarrassment. As I made my way through the aisles to finish my shopping I would occasionally hear tiny little voices still talking about my fabulous pink hair.
It kind of made my day.
I’m just saying.
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