Semiotics

You ever wonder what people are thiking? I do all the time, mostly because I'm mystified at their behavior. I'm not talking about foreigners, they get a pass; if I see someone dressed oddly or acting oddly and they have an accent I know they're not coming from the same place I am. If, however, I see a fellow American looking like a circus sideshow... get me my robe and gavel and let the judgement begin.
   I was out last night with my mother, who needed to return a reconsidered Christmas present to Kohl's. And then, since we were in the store already, to shop for a new present in its place. This was just like Sears when I was younger, except this time she didn't feel the need to pretend to shop for me for a few minutes before taking an hour or more on something else. For my part I watched people. Who were, largely, unassuming and just going about their business.
   And then I saw... HER.
   Imagine, if you will, a woman whose hair is dyed not once but twice. Bleached blonde on top, bad home-dye job red underneath, both colors bound up in a sloppy, too-short ponytail with bits sticking out all over. Eyebrows gone and then painted in like a surprise. Thick pancake makeup. Lots of lip liner but no lipstick.
   Moving down the neck I saw the angel wing tattoos on her chest peeking out from a black lace shirt, over which was mercifully thrown a shiny white coat. Brick red fingernails - I didn't even know they made brick red nail polish - and a wrist full of those shaped rubber band thingys kids go ape over. Some sort of knit skirt (yes, a knit skirt) that stopped just below the shiny white coat, and legs that sported patterned black lace tights. Her shoes were closed-toed gold lame which nevertheless revealed the tattoos she sported on the tops of her feet.
   Best of all... pushing a baby stroller.
   Dear God in Heaven, what could this woman possibly have been thinking? It was like she chose on purpose everything that would make her look not just bad but terrible. Like a cliched Hollywood interpretation of poor taste and judgement. But there were no cameras, this was real life. I'd be charitable and say she just didn't know any better, but she was at least my age, possibly older, and if I can tell she's a fugitive from the fashion police she has to know as well. What's more, this is the face of 'Grandma' (let's hope) for the poor little baby she was pushing around. A tattooed, dyed, hooker version of Nana.
   Wow. Three things had to happen for me to encounter this train wreck in Kohl's. She had to think that ensemble looked good; she had to think it looked good on her; and she had to decide to go out in public looking like that. Triply bad.
   You might say 'Don, why don't you just live and let live?' But you weren't there. You didn't see her, large as life, pass within feet of you, unashamed, like a mental patient who'd gone over the wall. I tried to imagine her home, but visions of black velvet Elvises and Franklin Mint collector NASCAR plates shut my mind down. It's always funny until someone loses an eye.
   And for God's sake, take a look at yourself in the mirror before you go out. You're not the only person in the world, you know.