This is almost, but not quite, a tale for the Ear Job series of posts. But no, this is a tale of… let’s call it social maladjustment. Someone else’s. Or mine. Or both.
The first words exchanged between this guy at work and me were simple, even innocent: “I said, where d’ya get your hair cut?”
But the context for these words was not simple. They were uttered by him, to me, and they were his third or fourth attempt to get a response out of me. And they were uttered — as were all the previous attempts, one after another, in the space of about a minute — as we stood at adjacent urinals in the men’s room.
