I was running late for work. There wasn't a whole lot I could do about the situation, aside from calling the managers and informing them, until I actually arrived on the premises. However, it occurred to me once on the Bus that there was a general and unsightly lack of make-up on my face. In my hurried afternoon of coffee retrieval and laundry separation, I had forgotten to prepare my visage for the evening. As the majority of my income is based upon tips, I need to be somewhat aesthetically pleasing. Sad though it is, sometimes tips can suffer when one doesn't exactly look "put together."
So there I was applying make-up without a mirror. Not only was I taking on this delicate procedure while being jolted and jostled around Waikiki in a motorized deathtrap, but I was attempting to do it without being able to see what exactly I was doing to my face. Needless to say, I was in deep concentration. That is, until a heard a masculine and exotically accented voice behind me. This voice asked if I was Canadian.
Random much? I turned hesitantly and answered honestly.
"No, but my mother is."
I get that my appearance screams that I'm a white girl in practically every way, but what about me specifically marks me as someone Canadian (or in my case, as close to Canadian as you can be without actually being Canadian)? I was intrigued, until I realized this old man (edging dangerously towards his 70's and smelling distinctly of stale cigars) was talking nonsense. Apparently I put on my make-up like a Canadian.
What does that even mean?
I have spent my life surrounded my Canadian women. Okay, perhaps that statement is a little extreme. I did actually grow up in America, so chances are the majority of the women I've encountered have indeed been American. But my Mother, the woman that taught me how to wear make-up, and my Grandma, the woman that taught her how to wear make-up, have been undeniably influential throughout the years. And I have never been aware of a purely Canadian way of putting on rouge. I think I would have noticed by now.
Yet now that this man had opened the doors of conversation up, he felt the need to continue. Awesome. Clearly my frustrated and stressed out aura was not perceptible to crazy people.
He asked whether I lived here or was just visiting. I had already managed to communicate that I was going to be late for work. Obviously I would not be employed on the island if I were merely a visitor. He then ascertained that I had been living here for less than six months because he had never seen me on that bus route before. I politely corrected him (that logic doesn't even make sense!). He asked where I worked. I lied, for personal safety concerns, and said Old Spaghetti Factory. He asked if I was married. He then went on to tell me that he only noticed my make-up rituals because he was in photography and they often have to be aware of a subject's make-up. He then told me that I had a beautiful skin color, a pretty face, but that I had some problem areas around the jaw line. Was this a recent problem or just since I'd moved to the island?
Really??? Is this a socially acceptable way to converse in your homeland? Thanks asshole. Yes, I did break out a few days ago. Probably from stress related to having to interact with nut jobs like you.
At this point I was bordering on being flat out rude to the man, which I saw as no injustice since he was being rude and invasive to me. I was throwing looks toward my other fellow bus travelers that pleaded for help, but to no avail. Aside from a brief call to work to inform them of my eventual arrival, I had no choice but to deal with this man's barrage of interrogations and try to deter him as much as possible.
At some point he told me more about himself. His name. He's Greek, but he lived in Vancouver for some time (and wonders if this is where my dear Canadian mother hails from as well...hell, maybe they knew each other back in the day). He laments the turn toward the inanimate in the photography industry since the popularity of the internet (because people are so hesitant to have their photos available for the masses to view online for fear of stalking or worse).
Mind you, this man was only talking to me a total of ten minutes. He just had this much to say.
Once we finally came to my stop I just made a run for it and never looked back. I took a different route than usual, so as to appear that I was headed for Spaghetti Factory, but who knows if I was convincing or not. If I've been found out, I could be dead next week some time.
I'll start composing my will tomorrow. If there are any requests, feel free to throw them out there.
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