It’s been an unusual week as both J. and I have been mistaken for heterosexuals. Maybe this happens more often than we know–“Hey, honey, look at those two gals holding hands. Maybe they’re sisters!”–but we don’t realize it.
You’ll never believe what happened to me. I came out of the gym to find an ad for a Brazilian on my car. No, not that kind of Brazilian. It was for an $80 hair treatment for split ends. Let’s stop right there. Lesbos don’t have split ends. We cut our hair too short. There’s no time between cuts for our ends to split.
Consider this: how many lesbians do you know with long hair? Okay, maybe there are a few. They’re probably friends with the so-called lipstick lesbians; heck, maybe they are the lipstick lesbians! Anyone who uses lipstick has long hair, right? Look at Portia! Sure, maybe Ellen was a cosmetics spokesperson, but I can assure you, her short hair had no split ends. Before you accuse me of stereotyping, I want to remind you that as a member of this group, I retain all stereotyping rights.
So I tossed that notice into the recycling bin, but first I offered it to my long-haired heterosexual neighbour. She declined by saying, “At that price, I’ll stick with my split ends, thanks.”
Then I woke up yesterday morning to a scrap of paper on the counter with a man’s name and number on it. J. had been out late the night before selling lottery tickets for cars at the Stampede. I figured she’d met someone nice in the ticket booth, struck up a conversation, he happened to need someone to marry him (to clarify, I mean “to officiate at his wedding”), so she told him she’d call him. Boy, was I wrong.
J. is quite the little salesgirl. Over two long volunteer shifts, she convinced hundreds of naive people to part with their hard-earned cash. She’ll use any tactic to make a sale. I wonder sometimes whether she fully understands the line between friendly and flirtatious. She told me she had left her wedding band at home that night because of the heat wave. Yeah, right. She must have been batting her mascaraed eyelashes (I said nothing about mascara above) a bit too enchantingly because, some time after she sold a ticket to a very nice fellow, he swung by her ticket booth again. While she was busy trying to entice yet another unsuspecting customer to buy, she noticed this previous buyer leaving her a slip of paper. After finalizing her sale, she read the note and realized that Mr. Starry Eyes had left her his name and telephone number.
(Aren’t you glad I didn’t reveal the name of Mr. Starry Eyes earlier in my story? If I had, I’d have blown the element of surprise. Or had I blown that in the post’s introduction?)
As far as I know, J.’s slip of paper also wound up in the recycling bin. I do feel bad for the poor chap. But what could she do, call to tell him he was barking up the wrong tree? So remember, folks, if someone doesn’t call you, there may be a very good reason.