A pretty young stranger at the next table pauses my exit with a question: "Were you Frida at the halloween party?" A city of 20 million plus and, clearly, not enough eyebrows. "No, but I get that a lot."
Was I Frida? Was I Frida on halloween? Was I Frida at a party? Prosthetic eyebrows? Plastic flowers? Failed Billie Holiday? Fitting disguise? Was I Frida at 16? Was I Frida yesterday? Halo of frizz? Mustache dust? Open chest? Was I Frida at 22? Bloody grin? Gritted teeth? Joyous rage? Radical rejectedness? Was I Frida? Pubic hair? Men's shirt? Cigarette? Was I Frida? Feckless heart? Reckless feet? Sharp bite? Slurred Speech? Was I Frida? Eyebrows met?
Every day, I thank 16-year-old me for her gumption and rebelliousness.
Was I Frida? Was I Frida on halloween? Was I Frida at a party? Prosthetic eyebrows? Plastic flowers? Failed Billie Holiday? Fitting disguise? Was I Frida at 16? Was I Frida yesterday? Halo of frizz? Mustache dust? Open chest? Was I Frida at 22? Bloody grin? Gritted teeth? Joyous rage? Radical rejectedness? Was I Frida? Pubic hair? Men's shirt? Cigarette? Was I Frida? Feckless heart? Reckless feet? Sharp bite? Slurred Speech? Was I Frida? Eyebrows met?
Every day, I thank 16-year-old me for her gumption and rebelliousness.
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