Dating Fiascos - The Hairdresser

When last we saw our heroine, she had just moved to Los Angeles, had recently had her heart used as the Official Soccer Ball for the World Cup, and was in desperate need of a haircut.

On a friend’s recommendation, I made an appointment with The Hairdresser.

You guys. This girl. This. Girl. The Hairdresser was unlike any person I'd ever met. Gorgeous. No. Not gorgeous. Mind blowingly beautiful. On a scale of 1-10, she was an easy 11. Los Angeles is full to bursting with attractive people and this girl put them to shame. To shame, I say! And then she spoke! Her voice had this husky, sexy quality that got ALL of my attention, and on top of it she was charming and intelligent and...flirting with me?

Probably not. The truth of the matter is, I often misconstrue friendliness as flirtation. It gets me in extra trouble in customer service situations. I.e., every cute waitress isn't flirting with me, they're just being friendly so I'll leave a bigger tip. (It works.)

But I was lonely and here was this BEAUTIFUL woman (have I mentioned that she was beautiful?) being kind to me and, ya know, touching my hair and stuff, because hairdresser, and I turned into a puddle. I probably didn't say six words the entire time I was there, despite desperately trying to appear witty and charming and worth flirting with.

I went home and could not stop thinking about her. So, four hours of building up my courage and asking friends for advice and ego bolstering later, I sent her an absolutely dorky text that said something like “now that you've made it so I can see out of both eyes, would you like to go to a movie with me?”

Listen, don't judge. I had *literally* never asked anyone out before. Like I said before, I didn't really date, I just sort of started making out with friends. Anyway, she laughed and said that she didn't like movies. I was in the process of dusting off my ego when she sent a follow up text offering drinks as an alternative activity. I think I may have screamed. I'm certain I accepted, because the next thing I knew I was sitting next to this insanely beautiful woman at a bar in WeHo splitting french fries and gulping down vodka cranberries as quickly as my nerves would allow.

Here's where things get a little tricky. She texted me a few hours before we were supposed to meet up to let me know that she had a girlfriend. Fine, I lied, I was still looking for friends in the city, so I'd still like to hang out. Over the course of the evening she told me about her girlfriend (much older, very wealthy, not very nice) and I told her about the way my heart had recently been smashed into tiny pieces (and confessed that I was still in love with the person who'd done it). We laughed. We talked. We got a little tipsy. I let the vodka ask her if I could kiss her. She leaned in...

You guys. This kiss. This. Kiss. You know how sometimes first kisses can be awkward things made of too much anticipation with sprinkles of self-doubt? Not so with this kiss. There's really no way to describe how amazing this kiss was (which isn't going to stop me from trying). It is now the kiss to which all other kisses are compared in my world. "Oh, she's a good kisser. I mean, not as good as The Hairdresser, but right up there!"

Sparkly Rainbow Butterfly Unicorn Kitten is *almost* as magical as first kiss with The Hairdresser. Almost.

By the time I climbed in the back of the Uber to take me home, I was basically floating. Mr Uber Driver even commented on my stupid grin and asked if I'd had a good night. You will never understand how good, Mr Uber Driver.

(Prepare yourself. This is the part where I blow it.)

Time passed. We hung out a few times, but she had a girlfriend, so nothing happened. She took me to my first professional hockey game. I helped her out when her car broke down. I went on tour. Her crazy roommate moved out. She broke up with her girlfriend. I came back from tour. We went on a date that should have ended in more of that magical kissing followed by other magical things, but instead ended like this (you've prepared yourself, right?):

We went to dinner. It was pretty tasty. We chatted and got caught up - mostly about how her now ex-girlfriend was trying to buy her back (yes, you read that right), and how tired she was and how early she had to be at work the next day. I interpreted this repeated information as an indication that there would be no magical things after dinner and was quite content to enjoy her company. After dinner we went back to her apartment. She was excited to show me the new furniture she had bought after the crazy roommate moved out. So I'm trying to be appropriately impressed with couches and giant mirrors (not that they weren't impressive. I'm notoriously bad at gushing. Please don't invite me to look at your newborn baby. It's wrinkly and smushed and will be much cuter in a couple of months and the nicest thing I'm going to manage is "oh, she's so tiny!" And that's not much of a gush, but I digress...), and she starts lighting candles (scented candles, mind. Not like long taper "mood lighting" candles, but candles, none the less.) and pours us each a glass of wine. Then she sits on the far end of the couch from me. Now, if I'd been a very clever girl, I'd have sat in the middle of the couch to begin with, but I'm not a very clever girl. Instead, I'm the girl that takes it for granted that when you have company over, you offer them a glass of wine. I am also the girl that accepts without question the explanation that she really likes smelly candles and is excited to have company over and therefore an excuse to light them. I am the girl that completely misses that she's lighting candles, and giving you wine, you dumbass!

We sit on opposite ends of the couch and drink our wine and then...nothing happens. I make no move. She makes no move. No moves are made. She mentions again being tired and working early. I accept this as my cue to politely excuse myself. I take our wine glasses to the kitchen and put on my shoes. She looks at me very strangely, kisses me goodnight, looks at me strangely again, and I leave. There is no floating in this Uber ride. Just me replaying the evening and kicking myself.

Because sometimes I'm a dumbass.

On the other hand, she is still my hairdresser. I'm gonna see her next week, in fact. So, maybe this is a To Be Continued?

Dating Fiascos - An Introduction

Oh, hey there! I had an idea. It’s probably a terrible idea. In fact, I should probably consider the fact that when I went home to act upon this idea, the internet was down, a sign from the universe that this is, in fact, a truly horribly terrible idea. But instead, I’m going to run with “what the hell” and go ahead and turn this terrible idea into a frighteningly terrible reality. We are rapidly approaching Halloween, after all…

You see, I’m dating. Which, if I’m perfectly honest, is a thing I have actually never done before. I didn't so much date girls as much as I sort of…well…hunted them? Casually stalked my prey until one day we were living together and then it was all sort of “so…I guess you’re my girlfriend?”

Here is the terrible idea: since this blog could use some dusting off, and considering it never really solidly found its identity, why not use it to document my dating adventures?! You do want to know precisely how lesbians go about dating, right? I KNEW IT!

There are some new rules. Since these girls are (mostly) innocent, I’m not going to use their real names. So far, this is going to work out delightfully well, as most of them have some form of identifying nickname in my world anyway. Cute Girl, The Nerd, Baltimore, Double Ex, Ohio, The Hairdresser. See? 

Aside from the millions of things that can go wrong when you start talking about actual people in painfully honest ways. Like, do I have to consider that there’s a possibility one (or several) of them will someday read this? I probably should. I don’t wish to be unkind or unfair, but come on! Some of this stuff makes for some humorous stories! Stories that are practically begging to be told! Or maybe that’s my ego talking, but as I said, “what the hell?” So, we’ll make a rule: if you know the person the story is about, please don’t use their name in any comments. Especially their full name. If the story is about you, then you likely have my number. Feel free to berate me over text, or, hell, even in the comments. I probably deserve it. And, hi! It’s nice to talk to you again!

Now that we’ve gone over the rule, the question becomes where to start. How about at the beginning?

By now we know I’m divorced. We should also note that the girl I dated for the two years after my divorce broke my damn heart. That’s a story for another day. What happened next was this:

I asked out my hairdresser.

Stay tuned...