Back in the early 90s when I had more time than responsibility, and a bit of spending money, I would hang out at an independent used record store a couple of blocks from where I lived after work. Yes, I was one of those guys.
One day a woman walks in pushing a stroller, and there are two guys with her. She’s wearing a big coat, her hair is big, has on big sunglasses, etc. The three of us, myself, the store owner and the employee behind the counter just sort of look at each other and collectively shrug. It wasn’t cold, the sun was out, but whatever. It’s Capitol Hill in Seattle, pretty much whatever.
She browses around a bit, which is difficult because it was a small store, and the stroller wasn’t making things easy at all. After about 10 minutes she picked out a couple of CDs and apporached the counter to pay. As she did so I get a look, sort of, at her and thought she seemed maybe familiar, but couldn’t tell because of the disguise.
After she left the owner looked at the check she used to pay for her CDs.
It was Ann Wilson of Heart.