When David and Rob and I were driving back from Maryland, where we went a couple weeks ago for a long weekend, we stopped in Burger King to get some dinner. As we were sitting there, calmly enjoying our Whoppers and onion rings, an old man who had been sitting with (one assumes) his wife ambled over, put his fingers in my hair, and said, "I love your curly hair."

I thought, oh, yes, I'm in the south. I forgot.

(Yes, yes, I know, we were technically north of the Mason-Dixon line. But we had just passed a construction site where someone was rebuilding Noah's Ark, so I think that counts.)