Garnering compliments is supposed to be a nice thing. When someone takes the time out to make special consideration for some facet of your appearance, the result is usually a positive one, even if only inwardly. A good compliment on the more readily observed aspects of your nature, physical or otherwise, is deemed polite and always welcome - it's a reflection of impeccability in others' eyes, and we're supposed to be appreciative of it.
But is there a such thing as too much? Can adulation go so far as to make you
loathe attention and actually react as though approval has magically 180'd into insult?
Of course, many would agree the answer is obvious. Anywhere from history to the storefront tabloids, stories abound on the negativity behind overt attention and the price behind it. Hemingway blew his head off. Hughes became an OCD recluse. Liz Taylor popped barbies on the NeverLand Ranch, and a slew of everyday celebrities and artists to this day bitch and moan about the "non-glamorous" world of riches and fame.
Well, I'm no big celebrity and would beg to differ with the whole "riches" aspect, but one thing I can vouch for is a taste of what all that shit is about, and it's scary. People are fuckin' nuts with their trivial fascinations and diminutive hang-ups on whatever it is about you that doesn't fit the shudder-inducing colloquialisms regarding the monotonous life and environment for these cold, sapless drones. Usually this kind of thing rears its head in the form of intolerance, but due to the fact it's not politically correct, I suppose, I have to be subjected to annoying platitudes instead. It's enough to almost make you miss the good old days, which I seriously wonder about sometimes.
This doesn't mean I, or anyone else, has to walk around like Dennis Abner to observe and experience such an effect. That's exactly what vexes me about the whole thing - the tiniest, most insignificant facets on appearance are the things that cause the double takes, the unwarranted attraction, and enough pit stops by strangers to sing praises to make me sick - cuz there's nothing special about those things in the first place.
I'm one of those peeps that'll change their hair on a whim cuz I have this thing about blandness. Too much simplicity is not my thing; it doesn't seem natural to me for everyone to resemble an assembly line quota, and it feels good, anyway. So inevitably, maybe, it came to pass that when tired of bleaching my hair, I decided to go purple with a new cut that very day. And I really loved the result.
Now, I wouldn't be so naive to say that to some, the hair alone wouldn't probably be unusual to them. But one thing I'd expect, as an adult in a free country with a modicum of worldliness, is that it should never be some kind of shock; something unheard of, to be biased against, a thing one could do that another would dare to believe they could not - where we live? No fucking way. That's part of why we're in America.
Unfortunately, one thing I didn't expect, since I never got it before, were the endless, sickening, annoying compliments. Yeah - nice things got me mad. And I didn't know why.
All kinds of people, from the grocery store, to the mall, to work, etc. - just had to stop to say "I SOOO LOVE YOUR HAIR!" Especially the older people. Menopausal women with brats going, "mommy, look at that!" accosting me while I'm out for a half-gallon of fucking milk, and beer-gutted dudes in pickups pulling over to say they noticed it and how'd I do it? There was actually a point where I wrote down the dye bottle info for when random people asked it of me. I could go literally nowhere without being approached and even CHASED.
Yes, chased. Through the mall one day by a group of teenaged emo's, weeb's, what-the-fuck-ever you'd call em. I can't say for sure cuz they just saw me in the food court, tried to compliment me, and when I quickened my pace, they actually got up and followed my fuckin' ass.
It was like a strange Twilight Zone where I switched places with some celebrity - and it had to be stopped. I ended up chopping off pretty much my entire head of purple, if for nothing else but to be rid of people swinging off my fucking tits on a day-to-day basis. Which is another thing I never understood.
We do still live in America, right? I'm in one of the most densely-populated states in the continental U.S., for fuck's sake. Perhaps it's an over-abundance of wasp's, or the fact that this whole fucking country is that goddamned conservative, to puzzle me on something as trivial as people's undying fascination with this kind of shit. Maybe the older peeps feel a need to be 'supportive' for obvious reasons, but then again, it leaves out the majority of others, most of whom are younger than me - which creeps me out more.
Although a lot more tame, I'm happy with my current tress condition, even though I still get total strangers pulling the routine on an average basis. The order of my days are to store what I've gained as about as honest a testament to the shit wrong with people to be classified for future perusal.