"5 Cents Per Hair. That's My Final Offer."

I've been chatting with this boy that is obsessed with my hair.

Every sentence is "How long is it?" and "My, that's a perty blond wig you got on ya." so on and so forth. He asked if I'd meet up with him for drinks sometime, so OF COURSE, I was forced to ask this inevitable question.


katiewnh: Are you a black market hair bidder? Are you going to take me out for a drink, put a roofie in my vodka... as I wake up groggy, confused... and bald?


This brought me right back to a fond memory, which I will share with my G-Masta. Do you recall that fairly robotic boy with the long, luscious locks? Does chasing him around, screaming expletives and numbers at him? If not, here's my explanation to my other IM partner.



katiewnh: My bestest bud used to do that. It was hilarious. There was this really weird dude at a store we worked at with amazing and just horrendously beautiful shiny long hair.

katiewnh: And she'd walk behind him really slowly, ask him questions. Like "If I paid you a hundred dollars, would you let me sell your hair on the black market?"

katiewnh: Chase him with scissors.


Coming back to memory yet? My conversation continues.


katiewnh: His reaction was the funniest part. He'd look at her like she was an alien, and somehow pull off looking like one himself.

katiewnh: He was the kind who has had very little actual interaction, so when she would pat his head and coo underground biddings in his ear, he'd just sit there quietly... kind of confused.

katiewnh: And then run away.


Good times, good times.