Someone to Love(23)

“To playing the player.” Ally sings. “In the name of triple orgasms, may you take down Cruise Elton’s heart and make it your own.”

“Believe me, he’ll never see it coming.” Lauren takes a sip of her drink.

The thought of Cruise Elton as my own personal boyfriend stuns me.

I didn’t see it coming either.

The girl in the red coat cuts me a hard look and dashes out the door.





After Starbucks, I decide to fill my afternoon with exploration.

The Happy Hair and Nail salon sits nestled in the same strip mall as Starbucks, so I head over and decide to cash in on my hair and nail jackpot sponsored by none other than Cruise’s own mother.

I watch as the artisan carefully paints my nails a candy apple red while another prods, pokes, and tickles mercilessly at my feet. Secretly, I hate getting a pedi. I hate having my toes scrubbed and molested, and every time they pull out the clippers, it feels as if I’m having my nails chewed off by a rabid school of fish. There’s nothing appealing about someone playing with your feet, unless of course, it was Cruise at the helm of the foot fondling, then I wouldn’t mind so much. Speaking of which, I should have asked Lauren and Ally if there was something special I should be doing to ready myself for my impending conjugal union  —like give myself a bikini wax in delicate places, or soak in rose petals for thirty days straight. Not that I plan on waiting thirty days before getting down and dirty with the boy toy in question.

Am I really trying to trick him into boyfriend-hood? I’m not am I? Tricking someone into a relationship is the earmark of a despicable person. I’m simply attracted to Cruise and, it just so happens, not to anybody else. A part of me does want to be a player—the girl with a heart of steel who could care less about who I’m “playing” with at the moment, but it just so happens he’s the only one I’m interested in sharing myself sexually with. Anyway, school starts in a week, and I’ll probably forget all about my hormones like I have in the past. I’m studious that way, and professors and books rarely hold much sex appeal.

After an hour of listening to foreign banter that sounded like the aggressive plucking of guitar strings, I schlep myself over to a bona fide workstation near the front of the establishment.

A frail woman with burnt frizzy hair plucks at my locks while inspecting them with great interest. She wears a purple frilly smock that bears the name “Boppy” emblazoned across the front, complete with sparkly jewels bedazzled throughout. Her blue fingernail polish is badly chipped, revealing a gardener’s manicure just beneath the nail beds, and she’s sweating profusely even though it’s a balmy two degrees in here.

“Virgin!” She whoops it out like a fire alarm.

My God, can she really tell by looking at my freaking hair? I sink in my seat as a half dozen women flock over and pull my mane as if I’ve suddenly morphed into a one-woman petting zoo.

“Give her a shag,” one cries.

“A perm, but go spiral. She’s got the length,” another croaks.

I’m quick to scoff at the idea. I can attest to the fact there shall be no follicular felonies of the permanent variety committed on my person this afternoon. The women admiring my virginal tresses have obviously developed a contact high off the ammonia congesting the air. Unless this quasi-dental chair they’ve hiked me up in has some magical time machine properties, and we’ve all been transported back to 1983, there’s no way in hell I’m letting a spiral perm fly.

Boppy leans in. “I’m doing highlights.” The over-processed princess seizes me as if to ward off the angry villagers. “This hair is crying for some contrast, and would you look at those eyes? They’re bedroom eyes for God’s sake. She needs bangs.” She shoos the other women away like unwanted pigeons. “Don’t you worry, hon. I’ll have every man from here to Canada trying to drag you off to bed.” She snaps her gum to annunciate the point. “Let’s get you under the faucet.”

“Oh, um, I washed my hair this morning. I think all I really need is a little trim off the bottom.” The thought of her digging her less than hygienic fingernails into my scalp sends a rise of vomit to the back of my throat. I lean in and whisper, “It’s my first time getting my hair done.” A cloud of shame settles around me for no good reason.

“Oh. My. God.” She backs up clutching at her chest as if I’ve deliberately set out to break some indelible girl code. “You, my friend, are in need of the works. You don’t worry about a thing.” She slaps a pink plastic coat over my sweater and speeds me off to the sink. “This is gonna feel better than s-e-x.” She belts out a laugh as the hose spits out a firm spray of heavenly warm water over my scalp, and I moan into the experience.