She was no dyke. You knew that the second you saw her. This gal was into guys. The first thing that told you that was her hair. It was ridiculous, the way it wasn’t too curly, or too straight. It wasn’t like the waves of the sea, but the look a guitar string has when it’s plucked.

And the color! Blond doesn’t begin to describe it. Her roots were gold, not golden. They faded into a platinum yellow at the end of her hair, and in between were ribbons of honey, mead, and even some clover.

Her body was cut like a mannequin, but more perfectly so. She was supple, but thin, curved, but not fat. She had a weird little walk, the kind that makes heads gravitate. Scissoring her legs, she was on a permanent catwalk.

But it was that face, framed by that hair, that made the blonde impossible. It could have been on every bus, billboard, and billabong. It was the face you see for Avon commercials, the face that sweetly tells you to buy this or that corporation’s product. If that face was at a funeral, it would turn the funeral into a singles’ bar.

But it wasn’t. It was, in terms of destiny, inches from being all over the world, but it wasn’t. And that’s why she was called the Impossible Blonde, by the only kid who understood why.

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