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Orange is the New Black


Borrowed from funnydogsite.com



I don’t know if it’s a Walmart thing, but the majority of women working there have orange hair. I noticed that while waiting forty-five minutes on line at their pharmacy to be told they lost my prescription. During those forty-five minutes of standing mostly in place, my iphone battery gave out so I stared at the counter women as well as the customers to see

ORANGE

hair.

Which set me mulling about all sorts of esoteric musings that must’ve stumped philosophers for eons. The thoughts that ricocheted through my mind during those very long forty-five minutes:


  • Is this a masonic type of female bonding ritual to which I’ve never been privy?
  • Do these women get their hair done at the same place, the one that sells half-price wigs;
  • Or perhaps have purchased made in China products for hair color. 


This observation made my world lopsided. For I realized that almost all the middle-aged women on the prowl in my town have orange hair as well.

Another WTF moment.

Which explains why I can’t tell those women apart. For example, everyone says Cyclops* and Pterodactyl* don’t look alike despite their similarities: middle-aged, dumpy, rotten teeth, nasty attitudes, dumb, heavy smokers, heavy drinkers, heavy pill taking potheads. Not to mention they’re close friends. Yet, all I see is:


ORANGE

hair.

“What’re you talking about?” screamed a friend. “They look nothing alike.”

“To me, they do. I can’t tell them apart. All that orange hair.”

The sad part is they know. The other day, one spoke to me and I interrupted to ask, “Which one are you? Cyclops?”

She rolled her eyes upwards. “No, asshole. I’m Pterodactyl.”

“I can’t tell you guys apart.”

“We know.”

The other day, I got my hair colored. It was once a dark auburn, but getting older the color turned more into a tired brown with red highlights. As a result, I made it dark brown. Many times I considered letting it go and whatever color underneath to emerge.

“Hell no!” screamed my hair designer.

“Why not?” 

“You really don’t want to know what your real hair color is,” she said. “It ain’t pretty.”

It’s bad enough I’ve very curly, kinky hair. With the use of 18 products, I can quasi-beat my hair into submission and make it straight-ish. But the combo of bad hair with whatever natural color is underneath, well, that’s a recipe for insanity.

“How about next time making it orange?” I suggested.

“So you can blend in with all the other middle-aged women in your town?”

It was a thought.


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*Names were changed to avoid legal issues.

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