Last week, on a whim, I got my hair cut. It didn't need to be cut, in fact it looked rather nice. But I'd just returned from Paris, and I was feeling like I needed to ease the transition with a little hairdresser hotness booster shot.
I have a very special relationship with my hairdresser. He's tall, black, straight, wears pants that fit ~just so~ and a smile that could convert a convent in seconds.
He allows me to pay him to cut my hair, and to gaze at him for an hour or so. Plus he does a great job--usually.
I wanted something short, flirty, fun. He cut it perfectly, asked me if I liked it, and when I confirmed that I indeed did, he took a phone call on his iPhone and hacked off another inch and a half.
Of course, this is what I get for going to a straight hairdresser! Oh snap. I'm staring at my little brother in the mirror.
Here's your $45. Great, at least I got to look at an attractive man's reflection for an hour--it'll be the last one for a while (well, with the exception of my own...).
One day passes. I see the ex-boyfriend at a bar after five months of nada. I adopt a clever Michelle-Shocked-style hat the next day. On Monday, nobody commented AT ALL at work. And you know how middle-aged women are; the more they are shocked by something the less they say above a certain decibel level. Even the copy machine was hush-hush.
Then my skin decided to give a breakout performance of "Revolt Against the Face." Zit mania. And my stomach has been compensating for all of the lost time pre-France. I've been wolfing down bread and chocolate all week, as if I needed to remind myself that it was still there (the bread, the chocolate) even though I was no longer...I'm just getting hotter and more available by the minute.
The long and short: I've lost all self control and I look like a pubescent boy with an unfortunate gland problem in his chest.
I was relaying all this via cellphone to a friend in New York as I walked down a long avenue here in Pittsburgh. She made an attempt to comfort me saying that I was much prettier than my brothers and that I could pull it off and anyway it would grow. Maybe there was hope after all--gee, friends are the best!
At that precise moment, a van was driving by and a man yelled out his window "HEY BABYYY!"
Yesss, oh divine presence!!!! I think I just got a cat call, and for once I was thrilled! Sexy street me on the prowl with a sassy new haircut. Yeah, I can totally pull this off! I turned to see who it was, just as the van passed me, and the man hanging out the window (the caller of the cat) drops his jaw and turns to his friend in the drivers seat, clapping, laughing and shouting to his friend in disbelief: "Oh SHIT!!!!! DUUUUDE THAT WAS A MAN!!!!"
* * * * *
Peeling myself off the pavement (I did actually have a great laugh, if only to properly acknowledge the impeccable timing), I said goodbye to friend before cellphone died, walked to Whole Foods, bought some applesauce and a toothbrush, went home and ate five chocolate truffle hearts in a row and watched a girl fall on her ass on the Olympics.
I feel ya.
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