Yesterday at the City Hall where I work, I was outside taking photos of the building for a powerpoint. A black man, about 50 years old, was riding past on his bike. He rode past me, slammed on his breaks, and did a 180.

“You’re that girl from that movie, ain’t ya!”

“No, I’m not.”

“I won’t hurt you. You can tell me! You’re that girl from the movies!”

“No, I swear I’m not. I promise. I’m not Julia Styles.”

“You can tell me! It’s okay!”

So there we were, arguing about who I may or may not be in 115 degree heat. It is the middle of summer in Arizona, after all.

“I have that movie in my house! You’re in that dancing movie!”

I pulled out my driver’s license. “Look,” I said, “My name’s Alisa. I live in this town. I’ve never been in a movie before. I promise I’m not anyone famous, and you won’t want my autograph.”

“You sure you not the girl in that movie?”

“I’m sure.”

Then he rode off, muttering to himself and shaking his head. I get that a lot. People saying that I look like Julia Styles, or that I look, “Really, really familiar.” I’ve never had anyone argue with me about it though. I almost regret not agreeing with that man. Think how happy he would have been if I had said, “Yes, I’m Julia Styles. I’m visiting my cousin who lives here in Arizona for some rest between acting jobs.” I could have made his day.