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The Meter Maid With The Mohawk

It was me. I was the meter maid with a mohawk.

It wasn’t that I was a punk or even particularly rebellious, I just liked having fun with my hair.

Also: buggered if I was going to wear the pencil skirt and wedge sandals that were uniform for the women… can you imagine trying to bend over and chalk-mark a tire in that getup?

Let alone that I look like I’m in drag when I put on a skirt.

And the guys got tailored trousers and Doc Martens.

Doc Martens! Cool.

All the walking we did? On unforgiving concrete of course. Oh yes I want comfortable shoes.

But I got called into the Chief Deputy’s office over my “... non-establishment cut...”, had to throw around several threats of sexism complaints, and the tailor was quite put out to have to measure trousers for me. Huh?

Sheesh, get a grip, people.

I’m still in uniform, still polite to people… giving directions, friendly, covered my beat.

I just don’t look like your cookie cutter hit me quite as thoroughly as it wanted to.

I’m a real person - not cut off with a wall of droid-ness. I’m accessible, I talk to people, I’m me.

Whoever you are, I get a smile on my face when I see you being yourself.

Because you being you for realsies makes the world a better place.

And letting your light shine inspires all of us to do the same.

Yeah, you get to shine: you’re a beacon, an inspiration to those you leave behind.

And your story hasn’t stopped when you disappear for a bit or even when you shuffle off this mortal coil, you can still inspire a glint of rebellion.

Bring the spark of subversity to the hearts around you, whether it’s with a mohawk, a fuschia boa, or a penchant for competitive duck herding.

Give us a call for ideas to commemorate your bright spark. We do urns, caskets, & memorial artwork.

We would be honored to help you celebrate your person’s mark on the world.

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