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I went to the hairdresser’s today, and because I knew I’d be there a while, I took a book with me. Anyway, there was a girl probably in her early twenties, sitting next to me, browsing through a hair and beauty magazine. I think she was getting her roots done. They certainly needed doing anyway.

I felt her burning stare, so I looked in the mirror and asked her if there was a problem.

I think I took her by surprise, but she gamefully asked me what I was reading. So I tell her. Linda Howards’s Dream Man.

Her name was Sandra. This was how our conversation went: (more or less)

S: What’s it about?
K: It’s a romance book
S: It doesn’t look like a romance book
K: It is
S: What’s it about?
K: A woman who has psychic visions of murders being commited
S: Doesn’t sound like a romance to me:
K: It is
S: Is there any sex?
K: Some
S: How much sex?
K: Enough
S:Still doesn’t sound like a romance to me
K: Ever read a romance book?
S: Silence
K: Well?
S: No
K: *Rolls eyes*
S: I thought romance books always had couples kissing on the cover
K: Not always
S: Barbara Cartland’s does
K: She’s dead
S: Silence
K: Silence
S: There’s usually lots of sex in ‘those’ kind of books isn’t there?
K: *Mentally runs S over with a garbage truck*
K: Silence
S: Don’t you get embarrassed reading them in public?
K: No
S: Really?
K: Really
S: Silence
K: So what do you like to read then?
S: Dan Brown
K: *Rolls eyes*
S: The Da Vinci Code was out of this world
K: So I hear
S: You don’t look like a romance reader
K: Oh?
S: You’re not old or anything
K: *Stupefied silence*
S: Can you recommend any good ones?
K: Yeah
S: Nothing with lots of sex though
K: *Evil grin*
K: Sensation, by Thea Devine. You’ll love it.

Yes, I know, I should have recommended a really good book, in order to promote the genre, but for fucks sake, she interrupted me when I was on a really good bit. I swear, I read the same page about ten effing times. Sigh.

The moral of the story? You meet ignorant twats everywhere.