He's just my friend

Sundays always bring out the strange ones. I had a woman (wait, back up, I've got to describe this better), no a girl comes up to exchange a pair of shoes. (wait, it deserves the full ghetto-blaster DESCRIPTION!)

OK. I love ghetto women. The fashion, the music, the hair, the nails, the jewelry, the attitude and the bling. So let me try to get this one right. It's only good if I get the descriptions right.

This girl wants to exchange some shoes. I don't know where or what she is rocking to at 11 a.m. on a Sunday morning - it is for sure not any church I know - but she is BANGING!

There's a pair of denim short shorts that leave very little to the imagination. And the edges of those are folded over and BeDazzled, although I'm sure it is some sort of custom work. When she turns around, I see that the back pockets have more work done in crystal studs and green stitching, although I'm really not trying to look at the junk in her trunk.

She's got a belt on with enough rhinestones to keep Dolly Parton happy for the next decade and a camo baby doll tee (at least a size, maybe two, too small) that exposes the navel ring with more bling. And makes her "assets" seem like more of an "asset." Big Beyonce-style hoops in the ears and what's got to be the best weave this side of Whoopi Goldberg. Red AND gold - thick, lush and nicely combed out.

The makeup is kicking -- looks like MAC and she's got the little crystals on the fake eyelashes. The nails are long - at least an inch - jet black with gold tips. And at least three inch gold heels. I don't know why she's buying shoes at Wal-Mart. Although she's murmuring something about "We got these as a gift from a store in Georgia."

I don't see a "We" here, but she could be schizophrenic. I tell her she can get a store credit or exchange the shoes, but I need an ID to do it. She wants a store credit. And doesn't have an ID of her own.

She's like "My friend is in the bathroom, can I use his ID?" Sure. I expect the "friend" to be as blinged out as she is, and I'm waiting on a purple pimp suit to turn the corner. Either that, or a lepoard fedora.

So imagine my shock when she goes to fetch her "friend" and the "friend" turns out to be an elderly man - full head of white hair, with a cane no less, wearing a beat-up pair of blue work pants, a tank top, suspenders and house shoes. "Here's his ID. Will that work?"

All I could think of was the late J. Howard Marshall and the late Anna Nicole Smith. I hope she was making his golden years happy. I really hope so.