Attention Walmart Shoppers

I had spent many hours procrastinating for Sra. Barcelo’s Spanish class browsing pictures of people with slightly unflattering wedgies and nauseatingly fluorescent hair extensions on peopleofwalmart.com. It took me ten minutes of sitting in Walmart’s parking lot to assent to the fact that I was about to become one of them.

I adjusted my rearview mirror so I could review the damage that had been done to my hair. The tips were a murky brown—remnants of a grungy hair-doo I had rocked for the past month or so—and the roots were a bright orange—evidence of three consecutive failures at bleaching the black out of my hair. “Fuck.” I looked out my window. At that moment, I wished with all of my being that the seats in my two-seater Miata could recline so no one would see me here—like this. But such alleviation would only have been temporary. I knew I had to physically walk in there, potentially exposing myself to endless mockery.

“Welcome to Walmart, sir,” a crusty old greeter said with a chuckle. The sound of his words made me wince, as if they solidified my pathetic situation. I bee-lined it for the hair products.

In my semi-lost stupor, several disinterested employees rushed past me, not a helpful glint in their eye. When I finally found the isle with all the hair crap, I began my search for ash-blonde dye to mute the ridiculous orange.

As I scanned up and down the rows of dye, I began to appreciate the humor of my situation. I allowed myself a moment to look around. There were a few shoppers in my line of vision. It was just like I had seen online—a plus size middle-aged woman in booty shorts; a scrawny redneck in camouflage overalls with no shirt, wearing the thickest man-coat I had ever seen; even a young black woman with a hot pink weave. I laughed to myself at the sight of it all.

“Eureka!” I had found what I had come for to this God-forsaken place. For a moment, I clutched the box close to my chest as if I had found the Holy Grail. I turned to proceed to the express checkout line. Click. I heard the sound of a shutter closing behind me. I turned to see who was snapping photos. What I saw was a hipster with an “awesome possum” t-shirt on, conspicuously minding his own business with an iPhone conveniently poised in his hand at his waist. I quickly walked away. “Damn it!”