I just happen to be a big fan of the Red Sox. Yes, I’m aware this is a black tie event at which several of our most promising potential clients are in attendance, but when a man loves his team he must sometimes make compromises, and —
Of course I like baseball, who told you that?
Wait, don’t walk over to the hors d’oeuvre platters just yet, Steve. I’m honestly glad you brought it up, because I’ve been itching to have this conversation for a while now. See, this isn’t just a single isolated incident — no, this is part of a wider, long-running pattern of harassment.
Are my curls perhaps a bit thinner than they used to be? Perhaps. Is more of my pate visible to the world than it was in my days of youth? Maybe. But am I embarrassed to reveal my receding hairline and growing forehead to my colleagues and friends, to come out to the world as a 32-year old man with early onset male pattern baldness? No way, Steve. I’m very confident and very comfortable in my own ever-more-visible skin, and I resent all of your snarky insinuations to the contrary.
Like that one time at the holiday party during the white elephant gift exchange. Remember how you suggested that I might want to trade for the Donald Trump toupeé? I can read between the lines, Steve, and that was a textbook microaggression. And then at the company picnic when you mentioned it was cloudy and pointedly asked why I was still wearing my sombrero? Well guess what Mr. Ethnocentrism, the picnic was Cinco de Mayo themed, and I didn’t want to take my sombrero off because it perfectly complemented the Taco Bell Cholupa Grande I had in my hands. So that’s why I was still wearing my sombrero.
Come back here Steve, I’m not done yet. Don’t fucking shake your ponytailed head at me, goldilocks. I’ve got to get this off my chest and I’m on a roll now.
What really crossed a red line was during CandyCon when you tried removing my toque while I was chatting up the head rep from Mighty Bars on the outdoor patio. Such a practical joker, Steve. No, it was not a beanie, it’s called a toque, it’s Canadian. Maybe you’ve forgotten it was 44 degrees outside that day. Maybe your mane is so thick and luscious that you’ve never found it necessary to dress your noggin on frigid days.
No, Steve, I’m not always making up weird excuses to wear things on my head. I told you, I wore the yarmulke that week in honor of Yom Kippur. That’s true, I’m not religious, but it’s more of a cultural thing, Steve. And yes in fact, the beret was also a cultural thing. It was Bastille day week. You know Clarise is French.
I don’t have anything to hide, Steve. I’ve made my peace with the aging process and my genetic fate. No, Steve, it’s not that I’m jealous of your full curtain of hair, so copious that you have the ability to make from it not just one, but sometimes two man buns. It’s just that I’m a strong believer in hats as a medium through which one might not only make a strong fashion statement but also efficiently project one’s personality and values. I —
What the hell, Steve? Give me the hat back. You’re just — get your elaborately coiffed head back over here, you dirtbag of a Samson, you Ra-fucking-punzel. You’re such a fucking jerk, Steve. I’m gonna grab your golden tresses and rip you a bald spot!
Oh god. Er — excuse me, ma’am, are you done with that salad bowl? I’m just gonna — thanks — just gonna put it right up on my, uh, and yep, here we go, fits perfectly, great.
Ahem. So, great presentation from the ChocoBag folks earlier tonight, yeah?