Someone to Love(24)

Oh God, it does feel good. Like triple-your-pleasure good. Not that I would know what that feels like, but still.

Boppy masticates at rocket speed while filling me in on the finer details of her boyfriend’s professional cage fighting career until something wet and hard flies into my eye.

“Oh my God!” She plucks it off and pops it back into her mouth. “Please don’t tell! I swear you can come in anytime you want for like a year, but if my boss finds out I dropped gum on another client, my ass is grass and so is my rent. Believe me, I’ll make sure you don’t leave here until you are satisfied.”

Gah! Her gum? As in the rubber cement she’s been trying to wrestle into submission with her less than hygienic sublingual juices? That gum? That’s the wet glob of goo that just fell in my freaking eyeball? I’m sure there are an entire litany of diseases I’m now eligible to entertain, like mono for starters, and the mainstay of the dead and dying the world over, hepatitis. I knew I shouldn’t have come to the “Happy Herpes and Molest Your Nails Salon.” And now she’s going to try and satisfy me, whatever the hell that means. I will so throw her and her refried tresses down if she even attempts to initiate a “happy ending.”

“I’m fine.” I assure for the thousandth time as she escorts me back to mission control. She pumps up the chair until my stomach bottoms out from the g-forces she’s emitting.

“Don’t you worry.” She combs my hair down the front of my face and cuts straight across in one clean hack attack. “Walla.”

Holy shit!

Did she just hack off my hair and follow it up with a walla? Why does it suddenly feel like I’m back in fifth grade at Becky Zuckerman’s house and she’s giving my hair a “little body”—code for a fucking mullet.

She fiddles with a rubber band, that honest to God she just plucked from the filth pit that is her mouth, and flexes it over my head. She backs up revealing my new unicorn-inspired ponytail sitting on top of my head as I struggle to catch my breath. Clearly Boppy here is freaking insane. Clearly, her not-so-cute moniker comes straight from the fact someone took her to task with a baseball bat and now my hair is reaping the grave benefits of a fractured skull trauma.

She begins mixing bottles and solutions as if they were potions while I plot my escape from this dungeon of disaster.

“We don’t want to get any of this crap anywhere it’s not supposed to be,” she sings, ignoring the fact I now have a miniature erect penis sprouting from my forehead.

“Where it’s not supposed to be? Like my hair?” I’m only half-joking.

“Just some chestnut highlights. Nothing more, I promise.”

She spends the next leg of a decade basting my hair with what looks like glue then proceeds to wrap it in tinsel. Any moment now I’m expecting her to tune me like a radio and dial into the mother planet. Personally, all of this wasteful use of tinfoil is making me hungry for a Ding Dong.

She spins me into the mirror, so I can appreciate the full effect of her not-so-handy work.

“Oh my God!” It flies from my lips without meaning to. My hair has ballooned out two feet in every direction and it looks as though I’ve donned an aluminum afro.

“Here.” She opens a jar marked “avocado” and slathers a green paste liberally over my face as her final descent toward insanity plays out right here on my person. “You’ll be spit shined and ready to go. New Year’s Eve, here you come baby!” She lets a couple of hearty whoops rip for added affect. “Now all you have to do is sit under these lights for a solid thirty minutes.” She pulls a set of octopus tentacles off the ceiling and surrounds me with a spray of blue and red bulbs. Suddenly, it all feels a little too electric chair for my liking.

I look at myself with my muddied face, the tiny follicular penis sitting erect on the top of my head and my hair splayed out like a tinsel factory exploded. I’m betting the electric chair is a tad less humiliating.

“I’m gonna take a quick lunch break.” Boppy snaps up her purse. “I’ll see you in a jiff!”

She spins the chair around, presumably so I won’t be moved to inflict self-harm should I gaze too long in the mirror, and I’m met with a stunningly handsome, drop dead gorgeous, very much aware of the fact I look like an ass, Cruise Elton.

Just fuck.





Cruise



Oh Shit.

I should probably busy myself pretending to look at paperwork, or answer the phone for the hell of it, or just run out the fucking door because my mother’s incompetent salon has just turned one of the most beautiful women on the planet into a prime example of why other females should never set foot in the establishment.