What are you?

I seem to be forgetting all the choice encounters and conversations, and my hands have been too full with shopping bags to whip out my notepad, so you’ll have to make do with my brain-remnants.

The kids and I ate out tonight. Nibbled out, really. It’ll be a while before we repeat that experiment, unless I’ve starved them for a day and a half beforehand.
At a table near us sat a youngish woman who was stared at profusely by my issue (I love that term). The reason: she was letting her inner Frida Kahlo out. In other words, her facial hair did not match the kids’ gender expectations.
And, man, kids are not subtle about staring. Their necks kept zipping around so fast, I got whiplash just being near them.
Oh, and whispering? Not one of their talents.
Coco wanted me to talk to “him.” I said I think it’s a she. “Really?” Madge burst out. “But he has a beard.”
“It’s called a mustache,” came out of my clenched teeth.
And here’s one of my prouder lines of the week: “It’s not polite to talk about people’s looks.”
Okay, that part wasn’t so bad, but I couldn’t resist the follow-up: “When they can hear you.”
And then it was hard to keep myself from laughing at my own joke. (I haven’t had an adult audience in a while.)
Needless to say, I now have a lot of ssplainin’ to do.
But, in our defense, I did get the kids to talk to her. I helped. Of course she was really nice. And Madge was duly impressed that I was able to look past the facial hair to discern the gender.
Of course another problem arose. When the kids asked her name, the answer I heard (as did Madge) was “Alan.”