I was sitting there on Saturday afternoon, thinking, ‘hmm, what should I do with my afternoon?’ chatting on Google and then it hit me. Obviously, I need to go do something to myself.
Next thing I know, I’m debating redness vs inkiness with a beautiful (presumed gay) man. About half way through my colour, which is more plum than I would like but less copper than I didn’t and pretty freaking rock star, he asked me out. Guess he wasn’t gay.
I left the salon about 45 minutes later, with hair texturized, dramatic and about 75% thinner. I heart it. It’s also flatter than I’ve ever been used to it being and with all of it’s edgy goodness, with little jags and stabby ends, seems like something that would give me a chance in hell with Shane.
Point being, I walked out of that salon $160 poorer, but with something extra. Whatever it was, I’m going to call it vive.
Because I grabbed a cup of coffee from my favourite liquid heroin dealer, Starbucks, and a man started chatting with me. And then he asked me out. Interesting.
You know, it took that hair dresser about 35 minutes to straighten all of my hair, so you {likely being a chick} know I’m stretching out washing it until I have to, right? It’s still all flat and softish and fresh looking.
Today, Isobel and I headed out to get her hair trimmed. Then the funness of office supplies shopping and then what-do-you-know, I was at Starbucks again, this time talking to my fabulous barista friend, C. She’s moving out of town in the summer and ever so excited and I’m ever so excited for her, because C is one of those people that deserves to follow her happiness everywhere it takes her.
We said fabulous about 15 times in three minutes and I guess I got pulled into her energy and the next thing I know, I was being all dramatic in my explanation of how 2009 seems to be the year that fabulous is being brought back, hand-talking, being larger than life, instead of my usual quietish, aloof self. And some guy who was sitting in a chair, drinking his latte and reading a paper looked up and he caught my eye and smiled and laughed at me.
Five minutes later, I had been asked out for the third time in three days. But I didn’t say no as firmly to this one, because something about him seemed different.
Maybe it’s that he had the balls to ask me to meet him for coffee while Isobel was parked in a stroller in front of him, flirting in her own way by pretending to be shy. Maybe it was that he folded up his paper neatly before coming over to ask me my name, before he even said hello. Maybe it was that I said, “Thank you, but I don’t think so,” and he gave me his number still, letting me know that he was free on Thursday morning while Isobel’d be at daycare and if I changed my mind, to just drop him a text. Maybe it was the dimples and the stubble.
The point? I’m not quite ready yet, because I can’t stop saying no. But I think I’m going to keep straightening my hair, just in case.
