Sunday, October 5, 2014

My braid, my shoes, my hole

I was feeling particularly jaunty on Friday because I had my new shoes on.
There's an entry in my journal from college about how fine I felt tripping around downtown Honolulu in high heels--shoes that I now wear once every two years or so, because seventeen-year-olds can destroy their feet wearing heels in a city, but twenty-eight-year-olds get shin splits and will be taking fashion tips from drag kings from now on, thanks very much.

So, me on Friday, new shoes, going to the subway. A woman with a dog walks up behind me and says, "You did your braid perfectly this morning!"

Then she continued on with her day.

A couple of things about this: her hair was kind of short. I think she could get a braid of three, maybe four over-unders before she had to tie it off. Why would someone with shortish hair have an awareness of the struggles and triumphs of the Rapunzel'd? And yes, my braid was looking especially good that morning, but what of it? Does my braid not look good other mornings? Had this woman been tracking me and my braid progress since I've moved into the neighborhood? "Frizzy around the collar today." "Crooked and bumpy at the top, she must've been in a hurry." "Smooth, nice shine, she must be letting the grease build up."

Or is she just an aficionado of braids? A braid-spotter, if you will. Maybe my braid is the equivalent of a puffin for bird-watchers.

This doesn't have anything to do with my shoes or my braid, but when I got to work, I saw that one of the courtyards on campus had a great gaping hole in it. I peered over the scaffolding and looked down into the depths of the engine room.

Another staff member saw me peering and called out, "Is there a kitty down there?"

"No," I called back, "it's a very fine hole!"

I happen to be an aficionado of holes in cities. A hole-spotter, if you--

No, that sounds dirty. Never mind.

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