Nice Hair

Within a period of three months, without the use of dyes or any other external process, the girl went from being a blonde to a redhead.  In truth, the actual period of transition was most likely much longer, but it took awhile for the people with whom she was primarily associated to notice.  Indeed, by the time the first person noticed (it was her great aunt), the red color of her hair was already well-advanced.

However, after the initial comment (by her great aunt), she began to receive similar comments with surprising and increasing frequency.  Everytime she heard it, she thought about what she thought about redheads—a trajectory of evolving thought that had begun some fourteen years ago during a conversation with her father. 

Their conversation that morning, though as casual and idle as it was most mornings, had remained within a surface scratch in her mind, accessible and easily recalled whenever she saw a redhead (until she herself became one) or whenever someone identified her as a redhead (which, of course, was a recent development).  Her father, casually, but with the confidence that comes with years of experience, had said, or rather, declared in his subtle way, that redheads were either very beautiful or very ugly. 

For a few moments, the confidence with which he had made the statement had its influence on the girl, and she had stored the knowledge into her mind’s budding collection of “universal facts.” Then she thought of her best friend, a redhead who was not particularly pretty, but couldn’t be considered ugly either, and she reminded her father, “What about Grace?”  He thought for a moment and admitted that Grace was an exception. 

In the days and years that followed, each time the girl saw a redhead she would evaluate whether the redhead’s level of attractiveness supported or contradicted her father’s statement.  During those fourteen years, the girl had seen quite a few very beautiful redheads, quite a few very ugly redheads, and many, many redheads who fell somewhere in between. 

Now that the girl had begun to think of herself as a redhead, she wondered if she were to see herself somewhere as a stranger, on the train or standing in front of her in line to buy a water bottle or banana, would she consider herself to evidence or refute her father’s worldly wisdom.

Good People

A silent couple entered the outerwear store and looked around for a few minutes.

The woman held up a men's jacket. “This one's nice.”

The man didn't look. “Eh.”

The woman noticed that the man didn't look. “You didn't look.”

The man looked. “Yes I did. I didn't like it.”

The woman held up a different jacket. “How about this one?”

The man looked. “Nah.”

The woman held up a third jacket. “Look at this one.”

The man didn't look and didn't say anything.

A short, relatively quiet argument ensued. (Something along the lines of: You didn't even look-Yes I did-No, you didn't-I don't want a new jacket-You need one-These jackets suck-These are very high quality-They're expensive-They'll last for a long time-I don't want a damn jacket-Fine, freeze to death.)

After the argument, the couple resumed silence and approached the register with the second jacket.

They remained in silence on the subway train home. A homeless man got on at 57^th street, carrying three or four plastic bags of unidentifiable contents.

“Excuse me, excuse me. Does anyone have some spare change to help out a person in need?”

The homeless man walked up and down the train car, unintentionally hitting passengers with his bags and taking the occasional small monetary donation from passengers whom he happened to catch by looking them in the eye. Like most of the other passengers, the man and the woman stared intently at the subway floor.

The train began to slow down at the next station, and the homeless man prepared to move to the next car. As he passed the silent couple, the man looked up.

“Here man, take this jacket. It's brand new.”

The other passengers on the train could not resist looking up to see the owner of the voice of the coat-giver. The woman had opened her mouth to argue with the man, but when she saw everyone looking, she didn't say anything.

Mothers of Unattractive Missing Persons

 (Mass Email to MUMP Supporter Listserve)

A personal plea from MUMP founder Karen J. Appino:

February 26, 2011

To our dedicated supporters,

Every year, millions of people disappear. That means at least 2,739.72 people go missing every day. One might expect, then, that the morning news would be flooded with reports of missing people.

Sadly, it's not.

The only missing persons' cases that make it to the front page or to primetime news are those that involve young, attractive (generally blond) women aged 16-30, or those involving adorable children. Even the online picture databases show signs of discrimination: The profiles of young light-haired women get 76% more hits than profiles of other missing persons. Every day, thousands of less attractive or aging men, women, and children go unnoticed by the media and internet users.

One might think that such shameful neglect would encourage the public to stop supporting all forms of media, but unfortunately, in spite of the obvious reasons to do so, very few seem willing to discontinue their newspaper, internet or television subscriptions.

And yet, something must be done. If you or someone you know has lost someone who has been declared a missing person, consider supporting Mothers of Unattractive Missing Persons* (MUMP). We are a network of family members of missing persons who are fighting for the equal representation in the media of all missing persons. Because of the current economic crisis, MUMP is, for the first time, facing heart-breaking budget cuts to vital programming and campaigning. Your support is more important than ever. To donate or to learn about volunteer opportunities, visit our website: www.mump.org.

In solidarity,

Karen J. Appino

Founder and President, Mothers of Unattractive Missing Persons

www.mump.org

*Though MUMP has always included all members of the family, including brothers, sisters, fathers, uncles, aunts, and grandparents, in May 2011, MUMP is officially changing its name to Family of Unattractive Missing Persons (FUMP). We feel such a change better reflects the inclusive spirit of MUMP.

The Gallbladder

With the great concern and care due to gallbladder removal surgery patients, the young man's girlfriend gently helped him into bed.

Despite the pain killers and waning effects of recent anesthesia, his girlfriend's hands supporting his back as he lowered his body onto the mattress caused his penis to harden into a full erection. For whatever reason, this struck him as unbearably funny. He began to laugh.

But then it was unbearable. The erection was not only hard on the recent incisions in his abdomen, but it also pulled painfully on the medical tape which held the bandage in place. The laughter only made everything hurt worse, so he tried to stop, but like everyone else who tries to stifle laughing mid-laughing, he was unable to.

The young man eventually found a temporary compromise between laughing and wincing, by laughing for four seconds and wincing for two, laughing for four more seconds and wincing, and so on until he was nearly crying from either pain or laughter, it is hard to say which.

  BB

A Mare. Eeek! Ah. (a text message between friends)

"You know, I still don't understand the association between poor people and sheet metal."

"Haha, what made you think of our trip to Memphis?"

Dinner Date

*Originally published in Love Stories: A Collection of Love Stories for Scott Footer

The man who co-owned the Halal street stand on the corner of Broadway and 32^nd street had an unusual memory for numbers. If he heard a number, even several digits long, he could recite it back without hesitation for at least three days. His wife and friends found his talent to be of great use, particularly when on the phone in the car and no paper to write a number on in the glovebox.

His cousin, the other co-owner of the Halal street stand on the corner of Broadway and 32^nd Street, also had an unusual memory. He could remember each of his customers faces with near-perfect clarity for an indefinite period of time. The second cousin knew immediately if a new customer was new or an old customer was old. He stored the faces of each customer who approached the stand into the mental categories of “new” and “old,” which he would quickly recall the next time he saw them. He did not bother to remember anything beyond their status as “new” or “old” – he did not remember if they got a kabob or pita, or if they liked white sauce.

Neither of the cousins' memory talents were especially useful for grilling and selling chicken kabobs. Nevertheless, their stand was widely regarded as the best in the area.

One winter evening, a young man and woman came to the stand on the corner of Broadway and 32^nd Street. The second cousin silently recognized the young man as an old customer and the young woman as new.

“You want white sauce?” The first cousin asked the young man. The young man did.

The second cousin asked the young woman what she wanted, but the young woman didn't want anything.

As the young man and woman walked away with just one aluminum-foil wrapped chicken pita, the second cousin wondered, at first to himself, and then aloud to the first cousin, if he could count the young woman as an old customer next time he saw her, or would have to count her as a new customer again, since this time, technically, she wasn't a customer at all, new or old.

BB

Romance on the Beach

*Originally published in Love Stories: A Collection of Love Stories for Scott Footer
11 February

A normal man pretending to be a crazy man pretending to be a normal man talked to us on the beach.

He wasn't pretending that he knew how to fly the kite. Not even a crazy man would have pretended that. Keeping a kite in the air is not easy. It isn't easy anywhere, but it is especially difficult on the beach.

I thought about the last time I had tried to fly a kite on the beach. Kite after kite slipped through my fingers and sailed off inland to entangle themselves in trees or to wrap their naked legs around telephone wires.

On one occasion, four friendly strangers (both to me and to each other) teamed up to help me disentangle an amorous kite. We spaced ourselves out twenty feet apart along the kitestring and pedaled sand and coordinated hand movements designed to coax the kite back to its proper place. We all got sand in our eyes and the kite remained wrapped in the wires and one by one the friendly strangers left to keep on leading their lives.

I tried to tell this story to the normal man, but he didn't understand, or he pretended not to.

BB