One of the reasons I dislike going to the hairdresser - or hair stylist as they are known these days - is because I always feel awkward about having a conversation with the stylist. So I usually ask them questions about themselves - I'm a pretty good listener. Although it is difficult at times if the stylist has a thick accent as was the case the other day with the stylist whom I'll call F, who is from Romania. Then it's hard work, straining to make out what she said, with all the rolling Rs.
Another reason I dislike going is because I have thick unruly hair and it takes hours to do something with it - in this case highlights and a blow-out.
Anyway, so during the hours of hair styling time, I mentioned to F that I had a date, with a younger guy, and I think it made F jealous - although if she knew anything about my pathetic dates she wouldn't be. But she apparently wanted a shoulder to cry on (not literally, what with all the hair chemicals) and my talk of a date set her off - so she proceeded to fill almost the entire time while doing my hair with telling me about her sad situation - her husband of 30 years recently has heart problems and is now suffering from depression and erectile dysfunction and so F isn't getting any sex these days. However, she is mighty tempted by various men she knows, but she doesn't want to betray her husband of 30 years. But she fears she will never have sex again and so she's trying to learn to become at peace with the Universe. And then she said: "but I suffer, you know?"
Yes. I know. Although our situations are different, the frustration is similar. I went on a date with a straight Taiwanese hair stylist. In fact that's what finally got me to go to my hair stylist - I figured my date would be looking at my hair with a critical eye.
He had longish hair and seemed like a sort of Asian surfer dude. And he had amazing tattoos on his forearms, which caught my eye in the first place, which is why I offered to buy him a drink in the West Village.
Well it turns out he doesn't really drink. So what I thought would be a nice hour, at least of drinking and chatting turned into 20 minutes of me drinking and him eating some bruschetta and then the two of us walking briskly through the Village towards his apartment, while I regaled him with the story of the Son of a Movie Star Booty Call.
OK but here's the thing - I wasn't expecting true love. And I don't mean this in a snobby way, but I really don't have that much in common with a Taiwanese hair stylist. But since when did the phrase "friends with benefits" end up meaning "benefits" without the "friends"? Don't people need friends any more?
This guy was royally put out by the fact that I wouldn't come up to his apartment with him, having just met him in-person less than an hour earlier. I said I thought he was cute and we should get together again so that I could get to know him well enough to become intimate with him. But no. It was now or nothing. What is wrong with guys these days? And this wasn't even the 20-something son of a movie star - it was a 38 year old hair stylist. You would think he would have some interest in humanoid conversation - he talks to women all day long. Is it really that onerous? I like to think I'm not a completely tiresome conversationalist, and if nothing else, I'm a decent listener.
I mean, yeah, he was cute, but really? I'm supposed to hop right up to his apartment? Doesn't he realize that the dating site through which we met specifically advises against going into the date's residence on the first date?
I guess it was a bad sign when I took his iPhone from him to do a search for my play JULIA & BUDDY - I was flattered he was interested enough in it to Google it but he kept typing Juliet instead of Julia so I offered to find it for him - and right in the middle of my Google search on his phone a message popped up from Tinder telling him he had a match.
And then he had the nerve to claim during our brisk walk towards his apartment that he wasn't all that interested in Tinder because it was just about hooking up. Not 10 minutes later he was giving me attitude because I wouldn't immediately hook up with him.
But since my self-confidence has been set to close to zero for years now, I thought maybe he wasn't really attracted to me and was just looking for an excuse to be rid of me. But he insisted on walking me to my subway stop and wouldn't you know it, when I gave him a good-bye hug he grabbed my right breast? WTF?
I did get something out of the date though - although the Taiwanese hair stylist doesn't really drink he admitted he's done "Molly" which is apparently a pure form of Ecstasy. So I learned something.
Yeah, my hair stylist F has absolutely nothing to be jealous of.