We walk. We don’t speak, I guess my friend is as drunk as me, or more. He’s muttering something, like a son. La la la… I drive him to the Cathouse. I know it’s a metal disco, but it’s the best place to find red haired around, and he agreed.
– Look! That girl looks exactly like the singer of Garbage! -I look at her. She hears us and glance back. In my previous trip I gladly found out this city has impressive women, and most of them are, from my point of view, displaying a kind of outworld beauty, in contrast with the traditional girls we are familiar with. I’m not against our local beauties, it’s simply boring to deal always with the same topics, you know, black hair, dark eyes.
– She’s from Edimbourg. Actually there is a chance we really meet her. – And there is a chance we meet Prince Charles, David Bowie or the Queen of England, but yes, it’s true.
– I don’t want her. You know what I want. –
– A red haired!
– A red haired, indeed. But do you know why? – I have no idea. But he continues without waiting for my answer. – I want to know if they have red hair everywhere. – He does a funny gesture, circling his chest and ending up on his crotch. – There’s a popular saying: you will know the real hair color of a girl only when you see her naked. – He laughs. I smile.
– And what are the chances this happen when you have the lights on?
– Fuck, I didn’t think about that. – He looks around. Not so far, there’s a bunch of people around a fluorescent sign. I can’t read what’s written there from this angle. But I do remember another disco next door to the Cathouse. We just left the metro station of Buchanan street, so it should be close by. I consider asking the locals about, when I see the small undistinguished black door… – Are we far? – my friend ask.
– There it is! Let’s go and have some more paints of black beer!