An Open Letter to A Man With Dreadlocks

(*)

Dear Justin,

I am writing this note to you via blog because I am in a different state than where I met you. Also, I'm sort of ashamed to go back in there. You are very unlikely to read this.

Anyway, I'd like to thank you. Not only for catching me, or for being less than a third as sketchy as you looked, but for, well, doing your job. It hurt, a little, of course. And it's not like you did anything special, far as I could tell. It was totally routine for you.

But it means a lot to me. You were there for me when I finally took advantage of the teenaged free pass to do things both entirely out of character and relatively permanent, at the tender almost-adult age of 19.

I know y'all probably thought I was drunk, what with it being 3 in the morning and my subsequent fainting spell, but I was totally sober (unless you count the natural high of song and dance), and had given this quite a bit of thought. Ever since I discovered the concept, I'd randomly touch my right ear while walking down the street, or in class, or on an airplane (whereupon I would almost knock over the soda of the Asian fellow next to me, with elbow room being the way it is in economy class).

I guess I knew that if it ever happened, it would have to be both impulsively and alone. I mean, it's not really impulsive if you think, at 11 pm, "I should do this after the movie!", keep it in the back of your mind for four hours, and then do it. But four hours without the internet to procrastinate me is like four weeks in real time, or something. And as for alone... well, I mean, look at me, then look at the gaggle of 22-year-olds getting matching Celtic knots in the other room. Can you spot the differences in this picture?

What I really intended to say, and I haven't said yet, is that I totally love it. It feels so cool. It reminds me that I am independent and can do stuff without my mom (in both the "whee I'm a grown up" and the "watch out you're gonna fuck it all up" ways, which is perfect). I barely feel it, except sometimes when the collar of my coat or the back of my pillow brushes against it, and I get a small rush of "gosh I'm groovy." I clean it twice a day--it's like a pet, what with teaching me responsibility, but it can't hide under my bed. Also, I think it makes me look older, which is crucial when you're almost 20 and you look about 12. (Y'all didn't card the damn drunk B&Ters. Just saying.)

Anyway, I've totally drifted into stuff you wouldn't care about reading. Also, you're likely on drugs, so you don't have the best attention span, so I should wrap it up. The point is: Thank you. I'd tip you more, if I dared go back down there.

Sincerely,
That Girl With Small Ears Who Totally Passed Out

(*) The picture, taken with my built in iSight camera, is reversed. It is on the right.