My First Day As A Blonde

Sometimes it seems boys like blond, silly girls. As a single, dark-haired girl using her brains `cause what else do I have them for?, I dyed my hair blond to act like a silly blond for one day.
I sat myself on a stool at a cafe bar in my town. Jazz music trailed out of the speakers, a blues-like bass theme with on top of it freakingly fast piano solo`s. I ordered a drink and took sip after sip.
After only a couple of minutes a tall, dark-haired guy in a clean, grey shirt approached me. He smelled of aftershave, the soft and spicy one. Of all the other girls present, that boy had picked me. I felt special already.
We exchanged some polite phrases. I smiled a blond-smile. He smiled back, totally interested in simple-minded blond. When he asked what I did for a living, I said I was a social worker.
It turned out he was one too.
We chatted about experiences. I came up with some real-heard stories.
Our conversation slowly slid into pro’s and cons of western people enhancing living conditions in developing countries. He knew a lot about it. used well-thought arguments too. Then he made a political comment. ‘Do you think the UN has too much a Westernised approach in international social aid?’
I nodded. ‘I think western profit has a high priority. I am sure you are familiar with the fish or fishing rod story? Well, in my opinion we should give them a hint of a drawing of a fishing rod.’
His smile stiffened a bit.
Away went my role as a blonde. I tried a grinn and then I realised social workers do not grinn. They only smile, kindly, all the time.
He finished his beer. I finished my drink, heart sinking.
His eyes were shimmering. And then he did the subtle nod. ‘You wanna…?’
I did.

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About chb

Writer, scientist, puzzled by mankind.
This entry was posted in Fiction and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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