In 2007, when I looked a little something like this:
I was at my usual bar with my usual friends on a usual Wasted Wednesday.
We were outside smoking like evil people do, and watched a guy climb the back fence and jump onto the patio. Whether he was underage, or didn't want to pay the couple bucks to get inside, I can't be sure. Pretty certain he just thought he was cool and wanted to make a show of it.
A bit later, I saw him talking to a guy I kinda knew. I went over and made some (surely witty and intelligent) comment about his fence-scaling skills. But before I could finish my sentence, he put a hand up to stop me.
"I don't talk to blondes."
This confused me - and no, not in a blonde way.
"What the shit?" I said back.
"I don't talk to blondes, not even pretty ones. Blondes don't deserve my time." And he turned away.
This weird little bug-looking creature had the nerve to think he was better than people with a certain hair colour? I could only assume that he had been rejected by many a blonde in his past, and his fragile (yet obviously inflated) ego just couldn't handle any more. And all blondes were stricken from this poor jerk's life.
So this morning, as I suddenly remembered this guy, I found myself wondering... What if I saw him again? Because now I look something like this:
No blonde. Just dark hair and a mouthful of nasty words for anyone that pisses me off.
I would kinda get a kick out of starting up a conversation with him, luring the idiot in with a few strategically placed eyelash-bats, fake laughs and complimentary words, and then a slight kapow to his cocky brain:
"Sorry. I don't talk to assholes with Napoleon complexes. My formerly blonde hair is frightened by the shortness of your legs." And in a perfect world, I could punch him in the bug-face and walk back to my blonde friends, where my beer would surely be waiting.
A chick can dream.