When You Have A Major Crush On Your Hair Stylist
I go to Bumble & Bumble on 56th to get my hair cut and colored. Now, I’m not sure if you’ve ever been to Bumble but one floor does cutting and one floor does coloring, and the guy who cuts my hair is a MAJOR babe.
For the sake of this blog we’ll call him R. The first time I saw R was about a year ago, and I swooned all over the chair. He had this amazing olive-colored skin, a sexy tuft of bed head hair, deep, chestnut-brown eyes and huge hands. And an accent. I’m a sucker for an accent. Even a Staten Island one.
So, while trying to make conversation with R on our first visit together I asked him where he was from.
“Where do you think I am from Leeza?”
“Uhhhmmmm….Brazil?”
“No.”
“Spain?”
“No.”
“I have no idea….It’s been a long day.”
“I am Italian. I’m from the Amalfi Coast,” he said as he manhandled my locks.
R proceeded to inform me that he lives in a house in Westchester, alone, just waiting for a wife to come along and fill it up with kids.
“S-s-so you’re single then?””
“Yes,” [Insert sexy Italian far-off glance.] “I am single.”
“BUT HOW CAN THAT BE?!”
I didn’t mean for my question to come out that aggressive, but as sure as the day is long, it did.
Now whenever I go to see R, I make sure to take a cold shower before. Truth be told, I’m actually dying a little to cut like three inches off of my hair. I still have left over dryness on the ends from when I was bleach blond, but R doesn’t “do” short hair. He flat out refuses to cut anyone’s hair short.
And quite frankly, I’d rather go around with split ends you can see from space than not have him and his big man hands play with my hair once every 6 weeks.
