Cowgirls and Indians

Having coffee this morning on Hawthorne, an indian (native) woman passed our table and asked how long it took my companion to grow her hair. "I've only cut it once in my life," she said. The woman took her hat off to reveal a really bad haircut. Really bad. And this is on Hawthorne where most things pass for good. It wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. Actually, the answer didn't matter. Nor did the conversation. I'm a shit to people who interrupt -- mentally ill or not. Indian or not. Spiritual giants or not. You could interrupt me and I'd treat you like shit. At any rate, she blathered on about losing a family member, cutting her hair off in one griefstricken hunk (a long braid, apparently) and burying it. She went on, at some length, telling us why indians do that shit. And I don't care. (theme of  blog.) They can cut off their arms and legs in honor of their ancestors for all I care. I was just having coffee. I didn't want to know. And the thing is, she didn't want me to know that. She just wanted some of my money. The psycho-tragic hair saga was simply the dog and pony show she was willing to do to get my money.

I was going to say that I can't stand rituals, but it isn't true. Some I find comforting, like the first day of school and new pencils. And easter eggs. I just don't think its okay to take out your religion and pander it on a streetcorner for pocket change.

Yes I do. I've changed my mind. I think that's fine. I should have been nicer. If I see her again, I'll give her something. 

I might.