Adventures with Pink Hair: Part One

I'm a horrible blogger. I know. Pictures are sparse, and so is content for the time being. Go with it, I promise the photo situation will be resolved soon.

Yesterday, for work, we went bowling for a goodbye party. Beer and bowling go together like rama-lama-lama-ka-ding-ka-ding-ka-dong, and once beer goes in, beer must come out.

I wandered over to the restroom (which smelled like Port-a-Potty, ew), did my business, washed my hands, and walked back to the opposite end of the bowling alley, where we were.

An older man, about seventy or eighty years old, followed me over. He was drunk as a skunk, and the conversation went much like this:

Old Drunk Guy: WOW! I saw you comin' out of the bathroom and I thought 'That's got to be a wig!'. But it's your real hair.
Jasmin: Yep. [Smiling politely]
ODG: Do you do it yourself?
J: No, my hairdresser does it for me.
ODG: It's so BRIGHT!
J: That's the goal. Oh look, it's my turn.

This conversation went on while six of my co-workers were standing there, slack-jawed. This confirms to me that (a) not all people have a crazy magnet like min, and (b) my co-workers will never save me from an assailant. They'll stand there and watch. Useful to know.

If you haven't seen me yet, my hair is not only pinker, but also exponentially more FIERCE. It's short in the back, longer in the front, and asymmetrical. I LOVE it. I stole it from a waitress in a bar in Maine.

I'll post pictures as soon as I can convince someone to take them.