Oh! You are French!

The day before WinterFire, I forcibly ejected from work for a few hours to get My hair done. It’s expensive to have a cut and full highlight, so I put it off and had not seen a salon in six months. This is a bit of a hardship, as I realized decades ago that when My hair is good, I look good. When the hair is not good, nothing else can get Me where I want to go. Clothes, makeup, bag, shoes, doesn’t matter. There’s just something about the hair.  When I felt the student loan finish line approaching, I got extremely frugal (still cannot quite believe it is paid!)  and so for the last six months it has gotten increasingly painful to look in the mirror. I looked old and grey and sallow and VERY middle aged and I did NOT like it, but oddly I sort of forgot what the cure was. 

Then I was out in an unfamiliar office building getting a sandwich one day and thought, I wonder where this hallway goes. Following it through a short dark tunnel it opened up to a brightly lit atrium and I found Myself looking down at a cascading green wall two stories high. It felt more than a little shamanic, and I noted that.  On My right was a hair salon. Popping in I looked around, spotted a seemingly gay male stylist and immediately knew: that’s the man I need. It was a weirdly certain feeling. Appointment was made and boom! Next day Sammie and I got started.

I walked in looking like the middle aged desk worker I am, super frumpy. I told him I wanted shorter and blonde again, a cut that projects confidence and fun, with a bit of an edge but professional enough to job hunt a white collar job. I told him I fantasize about making it multiple bold colors. I told him that in college I had it bleach blonde on top, shaved short underneath (it was the 80s), with the bleach blonde top coming to a stacked duck tail point high in the back, that perfectly matched the line of My mortarboard when I graduated. His eyes lit a little, he said ok.

I told him the cut was prompted by big plans for the weekend, an “alternative lifestyle” event, but the remark passed with no response. I eventually elicited that he is not gay, but French. Married, two adult kids. He came to America for love... love of money, opportunity, and married one of his clients. 

The pivot came when the only other person in the salon, the Central American sweeper, commented that My husband will really like the new look. I replied that I don’t have a man, I have four. I swear I heard Sammie’s ears perk up. I mentioned polyamory and briefly descibed each of My four boys. Sammie asked Me to define polyamory, as he had never heard the word, and when I did, he responded:

"Oh!  You are French!"

This made Sammie happy. Now talk turned to Dark Odyssey events. How do you know someone consents? When, where, how much? Are the hotel rooms assigned?  He has been looking for such people for years and never found them. Sammie was thrilled. I showed him event photos, the event website, I put the URL on his phone.

As we finished My stunning new do, blonder, shorter, sculptural, asymmetrical — I love it and it’s getting rave reviews — he said: now I know. 

Next time will be different, now I understand you.

I suspect maybe Sammie also wants to fuck Me, this much needs no translation. I didn’t get into the BDSM part of camp while we had an audience, though he saw some pictures and he lifted no eyebrows.  He may very well be as vanilla as they come, and het dom male at that, it may be a non-starter.  But I suspect we are good for a few dates, and who knows what could happen? Perhaps I’ll be getting My hair done regularly. Who knows where this could lead.

At minimum I have a new do, a new place, a new confidante, an easy place to procure My Aveda shampoo, a great escape from the office. And maybe much more.

I feel pretty again, and confident in perhaps yes that seemingly easy way of French women. Now when I look in the mirror, I see a more beautiful Me, oddly a thinner Me, a more vibrant Me, no mtter what I’m wearing.  Being able to see it again for the first time in a long time, makes Me want to eat right, makes Me want to exercise. I started wearing earrings again, I put on makeup at camp. It crossed My mind to buy more. My God, it even crossed My mind that if Eddie Izzard can run marathons around England with no training, I surely could start running too. Where did THAT come from? 

Who is this Woman that lurks beneath the debt, who has this beauty, and these wild thoughts of exercise and Frenchmen? I must meet her.