“Ah, blue hair,” said the old Chinese lady behind the counter. “Very nice. Maybe you have blue blood too?” She smiled wildly at me. “Maybe you a alien?”

I smile. 

I don’t dye my hair for other people.
(Okay, that’s not quite true; I love the way teenagers look at me, like I’m trustworthy and in the know and cool, and I love it when it encourages cute girls to talk to me. 
Girl: I like your hair!
Me: Thank you; I do it so cute girls will like it, so thanks.)

But I feel more like myself back like this. I feel like a transvestite in a beautiful gown, about to blur the lines of ambiguity. I feel like a spaceman with his safety helment on, ready to stare into the heart of the sun. I feel like I’ve stripped off the secret identity, and let the cartoon character shine through. 

And hell, maybe she’s right.
Maybe I am an alien.