Country Diner Catwalk

In the diner yesterday morning, as I enjoyed eggs-over-easy, in walked a young guy - probably about 19 - completely decked out in K-Fed fashion. He was bean-pole thin with a jutting auburn cool patch beneath his lower lip. On his chin a corresponding tuft of scrub represented an aspiring goatee. He wore a plaid winter fedora - the fake fur kind you used to see old men wear 20 years ago. Under the fedora his no-doubt corn-rowed hair was covered by a blue bandana. The ear I could see sported a "diamond" stud. His madras shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a tee shirt beneath that I was too distracted to read. Baggy khakis collapsed in abundant folds on the uppers of white shoes.

I couldn't read his tee shirt because I was too busy staring at the swirling multi-hued ink covering his forearms. From the wrist up to his shirt sleeves there was not a pinch of undecorated skin. He crossed to get his take-out order from the cashier when I heard the grizzled older man in the booth behind me deliver his one line fashion review:

"If my kid looked like that I'd beat his ass!"

I almost choked on my eggs stifling a laugh.