You know those waspish looks some women shoot at you, like you’re a week’s growth on a Petrie dish? Or from another planet?
“You’re not from around here, are you?” queried Babette the Beach Babe, baring her teeth and narrowing her eyes to complement her bare and narrow attire.
Synymyn Rousseau doesn’t fit the Southern California image, and, just between you and me, any attempt to do so would be futile.
“Nope, I’m from Back East,” she replied with a shy smile, and was favored with a knowing nod. Yep, that explains it, Babette’s flared nostrils seemed to imply.
Truth be told, Synymyn is from an as-yet undiscovered planet light years away in the Eastern sky, but she held her tongue, reckoning such information should only be disclosed on a need-to-know basis.
What stamped Synymyn incontrovertibly stand-outish?
Porcelain skin (amazingly freckle-free) belied her achievement of a certain age. “A certain age” on her planet suggested the achievement of several thousand years — an accomplishment dubbed “living,” not “aging.”
Flaming hair exploded from her scalp, rendering her (and countless hardy hairdressers) helpless in its red wake. After years of futile attempts to domesticate the turbulent tresses, she had ultimately surrendered to a Bad Hair Life.
Moving on, one noted her unstylish lack of lip rings, nose bones, and other quirky piercings. All the holes in her head were blessedly God given.
Countless men had been stopped in their tracks at first glance. Bimbo-browsing types, on the one hand, rapidly lost interest. After a surreptitious look over, an eye avert immediately ensued as her lack of Babe potential became evident.
No hip-high or fanny-cramping skirts captured the curious gaze. Having never mastered the art of hair flinging or butt swinging (her hair refused to “fling,” and bitty butts don’t swing), she also lacked the fore-and-aft cleavage revealage required to catapult her to Status: Hot. Even toe cleavage remained demurely concealed.
On the other hand, Synymyn left the more timid of the male species cowering, intimidated by the paradox of her diminutive size yet larger-than-life “presence.” The Wit That Bit had earned her a reputation, becameher trademark. Confident and self-contained, she was nobody’s fool, and it showed.
On rare occasions, her fragile appearance caused her to be mistaken for bully bait. Cobra-like, her sharp-edged wit bit to the quick of any player wanna-be foolish enough to attempt a reel in.
“Don’t you ever smile?” flirtatiously queried one hopeful contender.
Her ego-crushing response? “Once, but you missed it.”
Enter an unorthodox name, even by Back East standards. Mom and Dad were first-time parents basking in “This Magic Moment” of her birth. Besotted by her baby beauty and after one look at her fuzzy orange scalp, they took leave of their senses and labeled her a spice.
As if unloading this burdensome epithet weren’t enough, they decided it would be more clever still to give that handle a twist: how about a spelling no one could remember, consisting of 7-for-7 consonants?
