On the heels of my previous post, I had a day that ran the entire gamut of responses to my appearance. Pull up a chair, dear reader, and allow me to share with you what the full range of reactions to my fuzzy self looks like.

It started when I was headed to my favorite comic book store in Santa Monica. I was in kilt, as I am wont to be on weekends, and waiting for a connecting bus at one of the local bus stations when an older lady approached me as she was passing by.

“Are you a Scottish boy?” she asked.

For the sake not having to explain the complexities of my family history (which does, in fact, include some Scottish ancestry) or appearance, I nodded and said “Yes, ma’am.”

She asked about the tartan, and then winked at me and asked if any of the ladies had tried to steal a peek. I blushed and replied “no, ma’am, not lately.” She laughed and smiled, and then went on her way. (more…)

“No, don’t look at her!”

“Uh, too late…”

You’d be surprised at the things whispered behind your back when people think you can’t hear them. We tend to assume that this sort of thing is the stuff of immaturity, only lasting through the torturous years of junior high and high school. But that’s not always the case. I’ve heard things whispered in public, at work, on the bus, and caught furtive stares just about everywhere.

And it’s something I knew would happen, and it’s something I’ve come to accept as part of the reality of my existence. It is, for lack of a better term, the price I pay for daring to buck the norm, and to do so in ways that are outside the “acceptable” ranges of strange, even among the weirdos.

“We are what we are; her opinion will not change that.”

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