Iceland

You couldn't stand Isla. Not because of his voice (it was damn good), not because of his songs (they were catchy), but because of his hair. Always perfectly styled, flowing blond hair that fell into his eyes just when he hit a high note. You thought it was too saccharine, too boyish for his raspy voice.

Your friend Lenka had been raving about him for three years. You'd held your ground, but this time she threatened: "Either you come with me, or I'll tell your mom who broke her favorite vase in 2015."

And you went.

The concert was at the enormous Ice Arena. The crowd was screaming. Isl came out wearing a white shirt, three buttons unbuttoned, and those silly blond locks were getting in his eyes again. He sang a ballad, the spotlights shining directly on the stage, and at one point he languidly ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back. The audience gasped.

Something inside you snapped. From boredom, from irritation, from the fact that Lenka was yelling so loudly next to you that your ears were popping. You cupped your hands and, drowning out the noise, blurted out your signature phrase, the one you'd come up with back in the taxi:

— SEED KEEPER FOR STEPFATHER!

There was a moment of silence. Those who heard froze, their mouths open. Lenka stopped breathing and clung to your elbow like a tick.

Isl, who was just about to launch into the chorus, froze. He lowered the microphone and squinted, looking straight at you. The musicians lowered their volume, confused.

And then he took a step to the edge of the stage and barked right into the microphone so loudly that the speakers crackled:

— WHO THE FUCKER IS?!