The Girl with Turquoise Hair
I saw a girl with turquoise hair outside the Original Pancake House today. I’m going to be honest, I don’t think it looked that cute even though turquoise is my favorite color. I mean I’m not a square, I think, I’m all opened minded and stuff. However, non-natural colors in the hair doesn’t do it for me. To each their own and everything, but honestly and truly it doesn’t turn me on.
If I dyed my hair green, like Kermit the Frog green, I think I would look like a fool. If I did blond even, I might look a little like Ms. Piggy. I mean, come on, I’m not gonna look like Ms. America, no matter what color I dye my hair. I’ve never colored my hair. I want to wait until I go grey. (Is it grey or gray? I will never know.)
Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey? It was a really bad story. I’m pissed that mediocre crap like that became a bestseller when there are great stories and writers out there that can’t get their work published; i.e. me and some of my writer friends. So here I am watching the world go by and thinking about writing the great Indian American Novel.
I’m at Panera in Birmingham, Michigan, looking over at these old cronies who seem to all know each other and talk amongst themselves about, well I can’t hear what they are talking about, but they are busy being with each other. I love that, they have a community. I almost want to join in their convo, but I’m not old enough or man enough to disturb them.
The dilemma of the day is I have to go to the bathroom and there is no one close enough to me that I can ask to watch my computer. It is seven-thirty in the morning on Sunday and it seems like everyone who is here is over the age of sixty. Which is fine, I have nothing against people that have a little age on them.
They are very unlikely to steal my computer. But nevertheless, I’m packing it in my bag to use the ladies room. This computer is going to die soon and when it does I will have a lovely funeral, flowers, particular hymns. I love this thing so much. So I go to the bathroom with my old computer in my brown animal printed bag.
I sit back down, and while I’m imagining singing love songs to my computer, I’m also watching Birmingham people go by. This is a rather wealthy little town, with cute little shops that are extravagantly expensive. People who are rich enough to buy things from these places seem to be walking around, with their fancy strollers and well-bred dogs.
“I’m just going to sit down here for a while and contemplate great things,” one of the old men says and he laughs. He is wearing a beige hat and a blue and white Hawaiin shirt. I wonder what great things he will contemplate. Was he in a war or does he hate war like me? Does he miss the good old days, or does he realize they were only good because he was young? Does he hate how fast technology moves without caring about the user? Does he think the gadgets are using him at this point?
Some woman who works here yells, “Dark Roast Coffee!” breaking the peace in the air. The quiet early morning is almost over. I want to slap her for not realizing she works in a sacred place. Me and these old men sit here to contemplate life. Sure we all like dark roast coffee, but it’s just an accessory in an average looking cafe in the middle of a mediocre life in the suburbs.
A very good-looking gentleman is walking towards Panera, he’s wearing a white baseball cap and a navy blue shirt, he has two Starbuck’s cups of coffee in his hands. I see a shiny metallic colored Mercedes Benz drive by. I wonder who is in there. Do you ever wonder what other people are thinking in cars while you are driving by them? Do you ever wonder what’s going on their lives? What hurts them? What moves them? What makes them laugh?
Sometimes I don’t even know how I drive because I’m thinking of all these people’s stories.
Everyone has so many tales inside them, in our memories is a collection of books that have no title. I like to hear people’s experiences, these elderly people probably have great stories to share. I’m too shy to talk to them right now. I suppose I could interview them, but I don’t feel like socializing or talking at the moment.
I just feel like being myself in this place, at this time. I want to see who I really am while I stare at the slight morning fog and runners run by the window in fluorescent tank tops. I’m one of those people who believes she can’t run. I know it may not be true, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
I’m going to start doing yoga, like today. The reason I choose yoga as my form of movement and exercise is because it fits in with my whole need to be enlightened. It’s an ancient practice they say will elevate the mind, body, and soul.
But what do you care? You came here, instead of a newspaper, to read something new, something exciting. Something different. This is all I can offer you at the moment.
Me sitting here sipping raspberry acai unsweetened iced tea. I kind of want to go back to sleep, and I swear I saw someone I know through the window. He’s a husband of my friend, he has this uniquely styled beard. But maybe it’s not him, and I don’t know why knowing if it is him is so important to me.
Sitting here, in what seems now like a party in an assisted living facility is interesting. I’m definitely not a part of this party. I look more like the hired help. In any case, a bunch of old white men and me. Where are the women? I wonder what these men think of turquoise hair, they must think it’s ridiculous. I bet they would think my thoughts are pretty inane as well.
That’s OK, I’m still here, whether you like me or not. Whether you are reading this or not. Whether you care or not. The sun is finally coming out. A biker wearing a red shirt and a helmet is riding by this café. I think he somehow needs me to be sitting here while he rides away, he needs to see this scene through the window. He needs us and we need him.