An unexpected scene once played out in a small, dimly lit bar tucked away in the centre of a tranquil town. The smell of old beer permeated the air, as customers chattered nearby, their features lit by the comforting glow of neon signs.

The entrance door swung wide with a creak on this particular evening when the clock reached the hour when the world seemed to blur and laughter got louder. A woman unlike any other entered the room, her tattered, sleeveless sundress defying her attitude of assurance. She was a large, commanding figure, and as she looked around the bar, a drop of perspiration ran down her brow.

She pointed her finger dramatically at everyone seated at the bar as she proudly raised her right arm, exposing a forest of untamed armpit hair. Even though it was husky, she bellowed, “What man out there will buy a lady a drink?” as her voice filled the entire room.

With the exception of the occasional muffled cough and the clinking of glasses, the entire bar fell silent. The customers, a mixed group of regulars, made an effort to ignore the sight taking place in front of them.

A scrawny, dishevelled man at the far end of the pub was perched uncomfortably on a stool, his eyes glassy from too many drinks. He slammed his shaky hand down on the bar, sending his shot glass into a perilous wobble. He said incoherently to the barman, “Barman, I want to buy that ballerina a drink.”

The old barman, who always had a scowl on his face, poured her a drink and handed it to her. She gratefully received it and downed it in one fast move, as if to make a statement.

After finishing the drink, she turned back to the crowd and pointed that unruly armpit once again at everyone in the room. “What man out there will buy a lady a drink?” she roared again.

“Sir, I would like to buy the ballerina another drink,” the small inebriated man at the end of the bar said, slapping his hand down on the bar.

It’s your choice whether you want to give the lady a drink, but why do you keep referring to her as a ballerina?’ the barman asked the tiny drinker as he approached him.

In response, the inebriated man grinned crookedly and said, “Sir, in my eyes, any woman who can lift her leg up that high has got to be a ballerina.”

The hush that had previously engulfed the bar was broken by the sudden outburst of laughing. In fact, a moment of unexpected humour had developed amid the muck and roughness of that old tavern, bringing the patrons together in a shared chuckle. The ballerina, as she was affectionately referred as in that small pub, carried on dancing her own special dance through life as the night wore on, leaving behind only the memory of a hairy armpit and a room full of laughter.