A Regular Carrot-Top

I find it increasingly odd how complete strangers will approach me and carry on entire conversations with my baby and never once address me.  This is especially odd considering I am the person answering all of their bizarre questions, since Isaac doesn't make a habit of speaking yet.

This seems to happen a lot in Wal-Mart.

"OOOOOOOHHHH look at the cute little redhead!  Aren't you just the cutest redhead I've ever seen!  With the red hair!  How'd you get that red hair?  Where did that red hair come from, hmm?"

So there I am, feeling awkward because I know full well that Isaac isn't going to answer their questions.  Am I supposed to?  They haven't even acknowledged my presence.  Behold Isaac, the redheaded two-year-old who shops at Wal-Mart all by his lonesome!  And by the way, what is it with the fixation on the red hair?  Sometimes I wish Isaac did not have red hair so we could avoid the questions.  I'm often tempted to make him wear a hat, if for no other reason than to avoid those incredibly rude people who think it is okay to touch my baby's hair without asking.  

"Red hair has to come from both sides of the family, although neither of his parents have it," I say.  Might as well just tell them up front before they ask again.

"But that hair is just so red!  Isn't your hair just so red!  Where does it come from, pretty little redhead?  Where?"

Nevermind.

Poor dumbfounded Isaac continues to stare blankly at said stranger while I begin reading a newspaper.  Apparently I'm not only invisible - I'm also inaudible!

"My neighbor's cousins from Alabama used to have a little redhead!  The cutest little redhead, just like you!  You little redhead!"

Like Isaac cares.

"How old are you?  How old are you?  How old are you?"

No matter how many times you ask him that question, I guarantee he will not answer.

"How old are you?  How old are you?  How old are you?"

Finally I just answer for him.  I don't want to hear them ask the question yet again.  "He's two."  Maybe I should tell them he's a ten-year-old girl, give them something to really talk about.

"Are you two?  Are you two, you little redhead?  Two?"

I'm sorely tempted to turn the tables.  "Oh look at you, with the blond hair!  The blond hair!  The blond hair!  How old are you?  Forty-eight?  Forty-nine?  You blond head, you.  Mind if I pinch your cheek?  Because I'm going to whether you like it or not!  You blondey!"

At this point, the "conversation" quickly deteriorates into an attempt to touch Isaac's toes or get two inches away from his face or tousle his hair, and I'm beyond being friendly and just wheel the cart away while they are in mid-sentence. 

"Did you see the red - "