The return of TBWUFH

I am reading Wallflower at the Orgy, the latest Nora Ephron confection, on the subway platform this morning when I see The Boy with Unusual Facial Hair rocket through the turnstile. I haven’t seen him in ages – not since the Fuckwit Festival in June (preceded by the Great Bagel Debacle of 2007), which revealed his indescribable cluelessness. Still, I have a soft spot for TBWUFH, whom I’ve come to see as my little village idiot in a sea of unsmiling faces. When he approaches me, it appears as though Starsky (or Hutch) has exploded all over the platform. There is something deeply wrong with his hair. He is wearing a tight polyester tunic with a deep V-neck. Ringlets of chest hair abound. Not only is it too early in the morning for a chest hair viewing, but it seems that his facial hair has also taken a turn for the worse. I am concerned.

“Partiffany!” he calls out.
“Hi,” I say. “It’s Persephone. How are you?”
“Could be better.”
“Sorry to hear that.” (I love it when people don’t understand that “How are you?” is a rhetorical question.)
“Got dumped.”
“No! That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”

Pause. Pause. Pause. I am struggling to come up with encouraging material.

“You have a new look since I last saw you.”
“Yeah. Hipster is OVER.”
“That’s certainly good to know.”
“I’m SO FUCKING SICK OF HIPSTERS.”

This, coming from the Hipster of All Hipsters, is a stunning revelation.

I nod vigorously. “Totally. Me too. So what’s next?”
“Dirty gigolo.”

Oh my god. Dirty gigolo. Brilliant.

Perhaps the Boy with Unusual Facial Hair is an idiot savant.