On the way home from work yesterday, I spied a guy with the most wonderful shade of red hair. His trousers were a little too snug in the hip and thigh area, and it seemed from my vantage that his eyeglasses were unrecommended. I quickly tucked away judgment of his doofus hipster persona into my pocket of hidden snark, because Hark! Fantastic fiery hair.
This is the hair color I would love to have!
If only my stylist would stop making my hair magenta! THEN! Then I could be gorgeous and content and all the little puppies would follow me around, but never pee on my rugs.
There is churning and the grinding of gears in my noggin. A brilliant idea surfaces.
I shall take his picture! With my camera phone! It will be perfect! I will have this picture of the best color red safely tucked away in my phone and I can show it to my stylist! Never again will I have to go searching through magazines to find my holy grail of example color. Oh, my, the cleverness of me.
So I skittered up quickly until I was walking just behind Mr Red Head. And I foolishly darted after him across the street, against a red light, whipping out my phone. I got the phone feature turned on and was right behind him ready to snag the shot, when I hit the button and
My phone makes this horrible, loud picture taking noise, right in the nape of this guy’s neck. The other dude he’s talking to probably saw what I was up to and is just telling Mr Red Head that he has a stalker. I wouldn’t know, because I totally ran away.
One response to “how i became a paparazzi”
I can’t say I share your love of this guy’s hair colour, but I think it’s classic that you took a picture of the back of his head. He’s probably still pulling at his locks wondering why you wouldn’t take a picture of his face. Maybe he thought you were trying to upskirt him.