The same raspy youth-on-a-bike has ridden past me twice now and both times has loudly asked his well-gelled mate whether he thinks he has the same ‘lesbian haircut’ as me.
He doesn’t. When the wind blows, mine does as it is told by the breeze. His wouldn’t move if Hurricane Katrina got hold of it. And I only have one tramline as opposed to his three (which could equally be the work of a surgeon or a bad hairdresser).
It would be interesting to know whether he genuinely thought I just had a lesbian haircut, or whether he wasn’t quite brave enough to go the whole way and call me a lesbian. Or whether he wasn’t clever enough to consider the possibility of a Real Lesbian walking along the east promenade in Morecambe.
His tone wasn’t especially malicious, so maybe I’ll ask him next time. I’d describe him as undomesticated rather than feral. Like the cat that scratches the table leg when he wants to be let out for a wee, rather than the sort that shits on the floor before rubbing it into the carpet and then walking it up the stairs…