Fuchsia Granny

There is a great freedom in not caring what the hell people think. In Amsterdam, you can really let your freak flag fly and no one really gives a damn.

It's ok to be tattooed like a sideshow freak and still be a caring mother. It's ok to actually BE a sideshow freak and still be a caring father. You can be a doctor who has been to jail on drug charges, but your professional respect remains unaltered. Or maybe you're a street junkie/alcoholic with a heart of gold, or a tranny hooker who just loves children. These are all people I have the joy and enrichment of knowing.

Which brings me to Fuchsia Granny. There is a lady in this neighborhood who looks in all ways like a nice elderly Dutch lady with all the trappings of same. She has sensible shoes, granny eyeglasses, an indulgent and generous smile for children, a rolling shopping bag, but get this: She has violently bright pink hair. This is not "oh dear, my hair color came out slightly brassy" hair, this is "Knock my surgical stockings off" punk rocker hair. It's all done up in long braids and piled into a neat old-lady bun at the nape of her neck. No one would ever mention it, point it out, or ridicule it. That's just the way it is here.

It gives me great reassurance to see her. Everyone has a unique way of giving the world the finger for whatever reason they have. Maybe she's a cancer survivor and decided that she was going to do something wild to celebrate her health. Maybe she just always wanted to look like a parrot. No one cares. And if they do, fuck 'em.