Young Utah blondes, thirteen-ish, eye your author intently while waiting for a table.
They're strong but their hair is bouffed. They're smart but they giggle. They're pretty but you can smell their perfume across the parking lot.
I'm scruffy, my whitening hair is unkempt, I have a little Trotsky chin beard like woodcuts of Satan or, worse, Trotsky.
If I had a hat I'd tip it: I'm not from these parts, ma'am.