Grinding Scissors, Tales from the Hair-dresser's Chair.

After a recent trip to the hair salon (nothing drastic, not to worry), I felt cleansed, purged of all my personal gossip, and sealed in the security that comes with an ego-boost from a beauty care-professional. Through this all-too-brief visit, I gained (as I often do) new insight into my life and the world as I currently know it. I realized a few things. First: The day I have a date that has me feeling as funny/sexy/charming as I do when I’m at the hair-dresser’s, I’m going to propose. Second: Never cut your own bangs, some things are not easily repaired. And finally: The most important part of any hook-up story is the entrance line.

I am a Jersey girl. For those of you who know what this means, I apologize for the unnecessary explanation. For those of you who don’t, it’s quite simple: I have an unhealthy obsession with my hair and whether it’s the loss of 3 inches, a switch to a swoop, or a bad bob decision, the relationship consequently forged with my hair-care professional is not dissimilar to that of the doctor-patient privilege a hypochondriac might enjoy. And because of the nature of our bond, I feel it necessary to inform her of all goings on in my life, so that she may provide me with the proper coif to suit my daily needs. I know Jersey girls whose hair-cuts have names. I know girls who will take road trips to follow stylists to their new locales. For over a year, I kept up a less-than flattering dyke-do in order to visit my old salon on a monthly basis.
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Money is no object, conditions are irrelevant, and the scheduling of these events rivals that of a wedding plan. I find myself talking about an upcoming appointment the way my Dad talks about the next WWII weekend on the History Channel, very exciting. Plans must be in place for the post-cut outing. Going home is simply not an option. The key is to see as many people as humanly possible on the day of the event so that the fresh do gets maximum exposure. There are major considerations here! …But I digress.

Love my mistress of the scissors though I do, I only see her a few times a year. Because I now enjoy the luxury of long locks, I only get to enjoy a visit with her once every couple months. This creates a maddening sense of urgency during each session. I talk at lightning speed, emptying my soul of all its turmoil as she touches my tresses and razors its edges. Since I last saw my fair Sheila of the Sheers—meant in the Aussie sense, her name is not Sheila—much has happened in my life. Old relationships recycled, friendships gone amiss, career changes & challenges, and of course, I’ve started internet dating.

I could go on and on about the lesbian dating websites and the parade of ironic hair-cuts they display, but I’m going to stick to the topic at hand. In recounting each tale to my wizard of the scissors, she kept asking “What was the last thing said before you kissed?” In framing this one moment for each separate story, I realized the importance of these words; people take note!

The unfortunate truth is that my life often reads like an old episode of Melrose Place. However, I must say that in this one instance, this perhaps serves me. I have to agree with my flat-iron giant in her value of these precious few words, and the entrance lines that have found me in my time make for great story telling. I’ll share with you some of the best quotes from ’07 and what there is of ’08 thus far:

Getting ready for a holiday party, with her mascara in hand, staring at me through the mirror:
She: You know, we don’t have to go to the party.
Me: Shit girl, you’re all the party I need.
(Kiss.)

At a bar in the West Village, sitting on a stool with one short leg:
She: My stool’s rocking.
Me: Well, I could put one leg up on it, but I’m going to look like Captain Morgan. (Puts leg on stool). I feel like such a dyke.
She: You are such a dyke.
(Kiss.)

In the kitchen of a Brooklyn apartment:
She: Sure you don’t want a drink?
Me: Thanks, I don’t drink.
She: How bout a sip? (Holds out glass.)
Me: I can have a sip. (Takes sip, hands glass back.)
She: How ‘bout another one. (Holds out glass.)
Me: You’re bad. (Takes glass, puts on counter.)
(Kiss.)

Entering a party, rushing to say hello to everyone, misses a kiss on the cheek lands on nose:
Me: Ow, Oh—sorry, awkward nose-kiss.
She: That’s alright, we’ll make up for it later.
(Later: Kiss.)

Walking West on Houston after coming out of a comedy club.
She: I guess I should get to the subway…
Me: Or you could stay down here for a while… (Trips, falls on face. Picks self back up.)
(Awkward kiss.)
She: I think I’ll just take the 6 train.
Me: Yeah, good idea.

So, the lesson here, I guess, is: Watch your words. Watch your step. And for God’s sake, watch for split ends.