Being a nazi. That air-headed bimbo took one look at fifteen-year-old me in my steel-toed Doc Martens boots (and black clothes and bright red hair, I should add) and immediately thought "Nazi." Punk rocker, indie chick, even emo I would have accepted. She didn't exactly ask me either, she only shot me a look of disdain and whispered loudly enough to her friend so I would hear. (Ironically enough, the same girl also thought I was gay. Not the brightest woman I've ever met.)