Spooning (37 page)

Bling
! (My IM went off.) It was Tara.

Tara could be so elusive. I figured that's what made her alluring to the male species (that and her talents in various other areas). Even our Cooking Club, a domestic venture, could not remain demure in her presence. Tara could never be
part of something without adding her own thumbprint, her own signature, her own spice.

“
S
o I just had the most orgasmic time at O'Divine!” Tara shrieked with joy as she unveiled her new platinum blond hair as well as a plateful of matching blond brownies. The recipe was appropriately called, Hey Blondie!

“Y'all, what's O'Divine?” Wade asked the question on all our minds. Considering that Tara was involved, I imagined some gentleman's club or Chinese rub and tug.

“My new beauty salon! Oh and girls, these divine treats are not store-bought like my hair,” she laughed. “I made these from one of my dear old great-grandnanna's secret recipes. They are absolutely sinful, but so worth it. Trust me.” She passed out the blondies, all the while tossing her hair back and forth in an odd, deliberate way to make sure we really noticed the lack of underlying roots.

“Hey, girls, I also brought something sweet for tonight's Cooking Club meeting,” Wade chimed as she walked back into the living room. “I thought it would be cute to make homemade dark chocolate brownies. What complimentary desserts—the blonds and the brunettes.” She walked around handing one to each of us. Tara eyed her as she went around. You could sense a little cooking competition in the air.

“Now, my chocolate brownies are really rich because I used real cocoa beans. Did you use margarine or butter in your recipe, Tara?” Wade quizzed as she handed her a brownie.

“Butter!” Tara cheered. “Nothing but the best ingredients in my recipes, Wade.”

“Good girl. You've been taking notes at our meetings.”
Wade sat down to enjoy her own sweet treat. “Mmmm. So good. If you can tell, I mixed in some finely, and I mean finely, chopped walnuts too. I didn't want the walnuts to dominate the chocolate in the brownie, so there's just a hint. Oh, but if anyone is allergic to nuts, don't eat one.” She just couldn't get out of teacher mode. “Okay, so what did I miss?”

“So what's so great about O'Divine?” Macie got us back on track. O'Divine. What a weird name for a hair salon. Where do they get those names anyway? And why do most stylists have horrible hair? Not just bad styles mind you, but frizzed, burnt, discolored hair! Tara had been verklempt recently after a botched meeting with a home-coloring kit. It said auburn on the box, but it was more like a burnt pumpkin with yellow splotches. Yet now, after O'Divine, she was glowing, literally and folically. Her hair was back to the brilliant blond she loved, and boy was she beaming. I usually saw this type of enhanced state only after a late Friday night date or an energetic ride on the cardio bike.

“Oscar is, ohmigod, o'divine, o'orgasmic!”

“What are you talking about? An orgasmic Oscar? Because of that?” Wade said pointing to Tara's do.

“You have to go! Just go. Oscar is the owner of the salon. He gives you highlights for under one hundred dollars and he gives the most amazing head massages. He can actually cradle your head in one hand, and then rub his thumb gently over your throat as he rubs and tugs your hair with the other!”

“Totally suspect, Tara. You're saying that this man, Oscar, basically has you in an exposed position, ready to thrust his thumb into your windpipe and snap your neck in the wash basin while you're mid-orgasm? He sounds more like a serial killer stylist to me,” Sage scoffed.

“Come on, girls, it would take
Matrix
Keanu mixed with a little Hannibal Lecter to pull that off,” Tara joked. “Seriously, O is amazing. He gives your shoulders a full rubdown, pressing on those spots that hold all of your tension. Then he goes for the armpits—”

“Stop! Who goes for the armpits?” Macie asked. “A boyfriend never goes near the armpits! A husband of forty years never goes for the armpits.”

“Yes, shave before you go. It's totally relaxing, the armpit massage. Trust me. Then he goes back for the head and rubs your ears. Now I have had my ears sucked and kissed before, but he sticks his fingers inside your ears, and rubs gently behind your lobes and—”

“This is turning into a Harlequin romance novel!” I squealed. “Who is this hair man?”

Okay, I admit it, I was entranced. Entranced and extremely interested. Hell, who wouldn't be interested in highlights, a blowout, and a full rubdown for under a hundred dollars? The girls and I had been facing the harsh reality of the astronomical cost of foils in the city. It was pretty outrageous what they charged especially since at the end of the day the hair folks were basically using bleach from a bottle and wrapping our hair in the cheap foil from Food Emporium. A process that probably cost them a couple of bucks could cost us upward of three hundred.

For the past few months, we'd all had hair anxiety. Personally, my roots were kicking. I even heard one of the girls at work whisper “nice roots” to a coworker as I walked by them in the bathroom. It was getting pretty noticeable, but it wasn't due to lack of effort. We'd all been hard at work trying to find someone who was good and cheap. They didn't have to be
great, just good and cheap, dirt cheap. I was really strapped in the cash flow department especially after this morning's DVF purchase. But it looked as if our hair prayers had been answered. Tara had done the dirty work for us and found us our ideal hair man.

“So he's cradling my head and rubbing, and his wet thumb slides gently over my lips. I'm totally ready to suck the thing for Christ's sake! Then water dribbles down my chin and I swear it is the juice of life. The whole experience was just so fucking unbelievable. Doesn't it look fabu? Oh God, he's great. Don't know if he's straight, and I don't care!” Tara threw her hands into the air. We were all salivating for more at this point as well as salivating for more of her grandnanna's delicious blond brownies. I had a weakness for nuts in desserts.

“Oh, but wait. There's more!” she went on. “It's the best part, the drying. You toss your head upside down between your legs, and he brings the hot dryer toward you. He tousels and shakes your head and you just have to let go. He then pulls your head toward his crotch—”

“What!” I yelled. “His crotch?” I bit into another nut.

“Yes, girl, and there's a nut on your lip,” she responded. “Now here's how it goes. O is standing, and you're sitting with your head upside down, your head is just about crotch level. Personally, I think he does it for leverage, so that he can give your hair ultimate volume. How else can he tousle effectively?” Tara paused in deep contemplation.

“Now I don't know if he had a hard-on, but I think he did. It was hard to tell because he wears those damn tight Euro pants, so he might just have had a big package.” She nodded at Sydney's and Sage's agape mouths.

“Yeah, those Euro pants,” she went on. “Actually, come to
think of it, I don't even know O's ethnicity. He sort of looks Latino, but has a slight French accent. Oh yeah, and those striking dark Italian eyes. On top of that, I can't figure out his age either. He's way too wise to be our age.”

“Stop, right there,” I interrupted. “The hairdresser is too wise for us? This man who is violating you with his fingers and his crotch is wise?”

“Yep. And he wasn't violating me. I was letting him!” You can rationalize anything when conscious choice is involved I guess. Tara handed out O's business card as if it were the password to some illicit, underground after-hours club.

“Oh, for God's sake,” Macie mumbled as she grabbed the mauve-colored card. But I noticed she quickly flipped open her cell and entered O's digits. A man like that did not have a number, he had digits. So figuring I had nothing to lose, coupled with the fact that Tara walked by me humming, “I see your true colors shining through …” I made an appointment with O for the following Saturday. Who couldn't use a little cheap hair amusement? (Note to self: Avoid the inexperienced mistake of using the word “cheap” in a sentence with the word “hair.”) Plus, maybe some alluring highlights would be just what I needed to complement the fashion makeover I'd started at the sample sale and help me find a spring romance. As luck would have it, Mr. J. P. Morgan had left me a message just the other day:

“Hey Charlie, it's me. Just checking in. Haven't talked to ya in awhile. Are you avoiding me? Yeah right! You wouldn't do that. Okay, give me a shout when you get off the couch. Ahhh, just kidding. Call me.”

It wasn't the most inviting message, hence I hadn't returned it. So far I'd done a good job of ignoring him. But
goodness knows my hair had to be ready for whatever was thrown my way, especially if it was him.

T
ara was right. O was o-mazing. He took well over five hours, but I didn't mind. I spent three hundred glorious minutes the next Saturday afternoon at O'Divine and I relished every second of it. I must admit that the night before, I'd had some serious issues over what to wear to my big meeting with O. Most hairdressers make you take off your shirt and don a lovely black polyester cape-smock, as they call it in the business. Normally, I would have worn just a plain old T-shirt and left it on underneath, but not today. Today was special. I decided to wear one of my new tank tops sans bra. It screamed sexy yet chic. Well, the top went right out the window once I set eyes on my new hunky hairdresser. O was tall, dark, and hand- some—either Italian or Spanish, I couldn't quite tell. He had dark brown eyes, dark brown hair, and dark olive skin. He was built long and lean with that typical European male body— you know, the type of body that can wear a Speedo and actually look hot in it. I quickly stripped down to nothing except my jeans and put on the silky smock. The thoughts racing in my mind were straight out of a Danielle Steel novel. I wrapped the ties tight around my waist in order to flaunt my tiny midsection and even went so far as to make sure that the V-neck was plunging to give my boobs a boost. (Note to self: That smidge of bronzer to the breast line worked!)

I sat in the chair and O did his thing. First, he fluffed and examined my hair. Now he didn't need to do that much with it. In my opinion, it was actually pretty plain: straight (no random kinks) and mousy brown (dishwasher blond in the
summer). Somehow it worked for me. But just five minutes into my hair consultation with O, I suddenly envisioned him as an artist and I as his naked muse. He was clearly a Monet in the making, going on and on about faint hues, lowlights, highlights, and all. And during the hours of foiling, O went one step further and even tried to engage me in salon small talk. Unfortunately, I did not have much to contribute. I didn't really mingle with celebrities much at
Sunshine & Sensibility
(except for the brief J. Lo encounter) and besides, talking about work put me in a bad mood. As for NYC chitchat, I still didn't really know the city well enough to trade banter about restaurants or clubs. More importantly, I did not have a boyfriend to dish about with my hair stylist. But here I was at O'Divine with an exotic-looking man running his fingers through my luscious locks, so I figured I might as well indulge him and embellish my boring life. Who the hell cares, right? I have an active imagination. And with that, my mouth began to sputter nonsense. After the first couple of fictitious sentences, I even began to get hot and bothered about my imaginary life.

“He works in finance and loves it!” I gushed. “The firm is so lucky to have someone like him considering what hours they put these poor young guys through. But he really enjoys staying late and seeing a project through.” I knew I had O's undivided attention just by the look in his dreamy Italian eyes. He was even nodding with a genuinely interested look on his face.