Dear DC metro area,
If you think I’m hairy, and you wanna groom me, come on, city, let me know.¹
I am not hairy. And I don’t mean “I am not hairy” like a creepy guy who insists “I’m not that hairy; my mom says I just got visited a lot by the Hair Fairy when I was a baby and that’s why I’ve had a Geraldo Rivera mustache since I was 3.”
Lip sweater made from real Rivera wool. Or, six sheep were killed in the making of this nose scarf. Pick your own caption.
I mean “I am not hairy.” Not that there’s anything wrong with being hairy. Except for dramatically increasing the chances of something like this scene from Along Came Polly happening of course:
Yet, it’s like you, DC, have assembled some secret Hair Paramilitary Force (HPF) to stalk me on your streets.
Years ago, for example, what I thought was a homeless man stopped me on New Hampshire Ave. and vociferously insisted I cut my hair. I now realize he was one of your agents in full camo.
Last week, you got me twice, DC HPF; twice. First, you got me at work. A coworker looked at my arms — again: not hairy; I can produce affidavits to that effect — and joked that she wanted to cornrow my arm hair.
Not four hours later, you got me again DC.
I’m standing on the corner of 14th and Irving in Columbia Heights. Older black dude in a medium-charcoal double-breasted suit and a baseball cap walks up — no — rolls up (there’s a difference) on me while I’m sifting through mail and Twitter.
He invades my personal space.² He puts his hand in my face, offering to shake, and says “Black Soulja.”
At first, I’m thinking I’m about to get an informal invite to join The Nation of Islam. Until I look down at his hand. It looks like the fake hand Chubbs had in Happy Gilmore, except, you know, an ashier, crustier version. Let me be clear: it looks like this man had “washed” his hand in cement and then let rats nibble off as much concrete as they could once it dried. Whatever was left, well, that was his hand.
Reluctantly, I shake because it’s what dudes do. He leans in even closer, as my head leans back, and
dude: You got a beard.
me: * w *
dude: You got a beard.
me: * t *
dude: You got a beard.
me: * f *
When he says “You got a beard” for the fourth time — and for a fourth time he does indeed — he pulls a used – USED — beard trimmer (bare, no packaging) from his left double-breasted suit jacket pocket and a complete set of trimmer attachments from his right pocket.
I say, “I’m good, bruh. Good look, though.” He walks off.
And there, DC, is why I have had enough. You got greedy. You thought you could just recruit anyone but this guy blew his cover. He was too creepy to fully execute his mission. Or maybe he got distracted by his want to hustle me and lost focus. Whatever the case may be, I’m on. to. you.
Oh. And the beard stays.
_________
¹And if you think I’m corny — (for paraphrasing Rod Stewart) — and you wanna scold me, come on, people, let it show.
²If “the invasion of personal space” had a Facebook fan page, I would not join.
“I tripped over your split ends coming from your calves.”
That is all.
PS: You aren’t hairy.
I hope the imagery of that doesn’t stay implanted in your brain for too long.
I agree with PQ where are those comments coming from?
Apparently crazy homeless people.
Not crazy, but well-trained paramilitaries.
You know how sometimes you’ll hear “only in New York.” Well I beg to differ. It should be “only in DC” because they don’t have the crazy that we do.
And p.s. for the record, you really are NOT hairy.
Seriously. And thank you.
I just about peed my pants reading this post. And now I’m sitting at my desk, two hours later, and I’m still laughing.
Then it was all worth the retelling.
hahaha “you got a beard”
He was nothing if not observant.
You got rolled up on by Chubs? I am now jealous.
Yup. In the flesh.
I still don’t know if he wanted to trim you or sell you the trimmer. He needs a better pitch.
A much better pitch. At least wrap it in saran or something if it’s used.
Ewww..I hate random creepy people who invade your personal space. I was once in Scotland eating at a pub with some friends and this craaazy chick practically sticks her face in my soup and says “Hmmm…that smells good!”
Seriously. WTF?
Her face in your soup? Unacceptable. Way, way too close.
I don’t know if you’re hairy or not…but it kind of sounds like you are. Otherwise, why would random strangers be approaching you for a trim?
Don’t feel bad, though. Random strangers lick me.
I wish I was hairy. It would be a defining feature.
Licking is definitely worse. Well, not definitely. I guess it depends on the stranger.
How do you come across these people? I’ve met my share of crazy, but yours take the cake.
Mmm…cake…
I am apparently on their radar. And yes: cake; mmm.
I’m pretty much certain it was this very event that this started my housewarming party off right.
Vroom vroom. Party-starter.
…
That joke may be too obscure, even for me.
Wow…WOW…
You got a beard?
LMAO, wtf?!?!?!
Right? “You got a beard.” Who says that?
i so rarely get approached by the crazy/homless of dc. le sigh.
OOH! i WAS picked up by a tranny when i got off the train in trenton this weekend, though. with my dad there. it was awkward.
That. is. AMAzing. Picked up by a tranny while next to your dad?!
That last encounter is horrifying. Hilarious, poetic, but also terrifying. I don’t know if I would have laughed, ran away or been shocked that I have a beard. Most likely the latter.
<— DYING.
“He invades my personal space.² He puts his hand in my face, offering to shake, and says “Black Soulja.”At first, I’m thinking I’m about to get an informal invite to join The Nation of Islam. ”
ROFL.
I had so expected him to say “my brother” but he went with the soulja bit. Caught me off guard.
This is why I am thankful that I cannot grow facial hair effectively.
But I thought beards were way popular…? I hate to point out hipsters but they seem to get along fine with them. Aside from, you know, getting made fun of because they’re hipsters.
“you’ve got a beard”
Don’t feel bad. I get that all the time.
From a fellow non-hairy fellow, I can tell you that I get this too.
The line about dude’s hands, the cement, and the rats made me snarf my beer, by the by.