Sweat Pants and Spider Legs

My hair looks like shit. Years ago, I read somewhere that dreadlocks were an excellent hair style for people who don't want to spend oogles of time on hair maintenance but at this juncture, two years into the process, I can see that I clearly was reading from a disreputable source. I have what you  might describe as an afro with spider legs.  I haven't had them re-twisted in about 4 months, and a dense and tangled forest has formed on my scalp.

I wonder what people see when they look at me. I'm not excessively tall, and I'm of average build.  I occasionally wear fake glasses, but that's only when I'm headed into Williamsburg to party with my blipster buddies. When I'm just hanging out though, I've been known don sweatpants. 

That's what I came into the grocery store wearing, on W 95th street and Amsterdam. It's one of those small joints with questionable food, but its 2 blocks from my apartment and hell, it's cold out. I'll pay an extra dollar and a half a pound for apples if it means that I can be warm. 

Today, they had a sale on oranges. The sign read that for $1.99 I could get 6 California Navels, and I hopped at the opportunity. I bought some grapefruit too, because it reminds me of a cocktail a mixicologist friend of mine handed to me on New Year's Eve called the Jasmine, which consists of Gin an Campari, among other things. But, I digress. 

The Dominican teenager behind the register rang me up.$1.99 for the grapefruit. $2.39 for the oranges.

"Excuse me," I politely say, "why are the oranges $2.39?"

The sale, after all, suggested they'd only be $2.00. 

Teenager Dominicana's neck looked like it was close to breaking in 6 places as she whipped it around, screwed up her face and offered this beautiful phrase:

"Umm, it's $2.39 cuz that's what it COST." 

These words were accompanied by a tone that added:

"You fuckin' dumb fuckin' fuck face. You are the stupidest mother fuckin' fuck I ever SEEN." 

My fingers itched to slap the bitch senseless.  My vast and rich vocabulary was momentarily suspended as the word "cunt" made its way to the fore of my vocal cords. Somehow, by the grace of Jesus Christ Himself,  I was able to restrain myself.

I laughed sarcastically, and told the girl that she could go ahead an keep the fruit. I wouldn't be shopping after all.

As I walked home through the blistering cold, I resolved to spend the $150 to get my hair done. Maybe then, I'd be better treated by my own.