As my hair is at a good long length, it usually inspires new folks meeting me, to ask if I'm native American. Yes is the answer.
I don't mind getting the question, and depending on the circumstances and time, I may go into a story that I am a "card carrying Eskimo" (Inuit is the politically correct term, but it is my Canadian friends that take it as a slur, not the "American Eskimo" - and no I'm not referring to the cute dog breed either!)
Yes, I have an identification card from the Bureau of Indian Affairs that states I am 3/8 Eskimo. My mother is the daughter of 1) a full blooded Eskimo and 2) a half Irish/Eskimo parents...somehow they determine that I'm then 3/8...so that's the backstory.
Now I often tell about my B.I.A. card, and it's usefulness. You'd think I'd say something about medical care, maybe some sort of casino ownership, et al. Not me.
Since I received it, gosh, back in 1992, I usually go to the grocery store, grab some Eskimo pies in the freezer section, then go to the checkout and find the prettiest clerk. I ask, "Do I get these for free? You see I'm an Eskimo!" And I show her the card.
I have yet to actually get free Eskimo pies. And to tell the truth, yet to impress said cute clerk with a date. But I still try (and there are quite a few Giant/Fox/Weis markets to check out, so to speak!)
Sad but true. And not only do I tell the story in polite company, I blog it too!