wax on, wax...still on

Despite the searing heat on Tuesday, I took my customary morning walk. By the time I got back into the building, I was regretting that decision because I was sweating and probably smelled like hot trash despite my deodorant and a liberal spritzing of Dolly Girl.

But then I walked into my cube and a grin spread across my face, because flowers! A big vase of red roses, stargazer lilies, and beautiful white flowers I couldn't identify but which might be snapdragons even though I googled "snapdragons" and the picture was close but not quite.

Yes, my friends, Tuesday was G's and my 8th anniversary.

EIGHTH!

Only my truly old school friends will remember this, but back in 2004, I had a blog on another site and a hacker wiped out thousand of blogs, including mine. The staff managed to restore most of them, but among the dozens of entries I lost was the account of G's and my first and second dates. I'm still fucking pissed about that, but in the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter all that much because I remember it like it was yesterday. We met up at the Cheesecake Factory and the chemistry was like whoa immediately. Those of you who know me in real life know that I'm the textbook definition of an introvert. I suppose we had an advantage because we'd been talking online for about a month at that point, but even so, I felt instantly comfortable around him. I think the only other time that's ever happened was when I met my friend John all the way back in junior high.

Anyway, I'll make a U-turn on Memory Lane here because I want to get back to the story at hand.

So on Tuesday, I left work at 4 and went home, where G joined me once he got off work at 4:30. We exchanged cards and gifts and all sorts of shmooply sweet nothings that are private (nanner nanner boo boo), and then we went to Cheesecake Factory to recreate our first date. We laughed and reminisced and it was awesome. Then, because there weren't any movies out that we really wanted to see, we went back to his place and played Max Payne 3 and that was also awesome.

Yesterday was like following a salted caramel macaron with a tall glass of vomit.

The first thing would take forever to explain and isn't all that interesting anyway, but in a nutshell, I fucked something up and will be spending the next, oh, year kicking myself in the ass for it. So, barring the occasional treat like a cold Coke Zero after my mile long lunchtime walk or catching a whiff of those perfect stargazer lilies, I spent Wednesday in a massive funk.

And after work, since I was already in a shitty mood, I thought "hey, might as well get my hair cut."

A word of clarification here. I hate, hate, HAAAAAAATE getting my hair cut. I would much rather go to the dentist than get my hair cut, and I'm not even joking. Part of it is the futility of the enterprise, because nobody ever knows what to do with my hair and I sure as shit don't know what to do with my hair, so we just sit there like "Okay, so what do we do with this hair". But I hadn't gotten it cut since right before Daddy-O's wedding, so I figured it was time.

So once I got off work, I drove to Supercuts and got my hair cut. It didn't take long since I just wanted a trim and my layers neatened up, and then I thought (ALWAYS DANGEROUS) "hey, might as well ask if they still do eyebrow waxing and then I don't have to take more time out of my busy life to go to the nail salon down the street from work tomorrow night". And lo and behold, they did! So she took me in the back room and had me lean back against one of the shampooing sinks...

...and then, just as she'd put the wax on my left eyebrow, I heard her suck air through her teeth. And then she said "Oops."

Yeah, "oops" is pretty high on the list of things you don't want to hear somebody say after they've put hot wax on your face.

Turns out she'd dripped wax in my hair! And she spent, I am not even exaggerating here, about 15 minutes trying to get it out. She shampooed my hair. She conditioned my hair. She sprayed and rubbed all manner of mists and creams and unguents into my hair. Finally she said, "Okay, I think we're good. Sorry about that."

"No problem," I said, even though it was a problem, and we went up front so I could pay. She asked if I wanted her to blowdry my hair too, and I said I would just do it at home since I live not even a mile away. She said she wouldn't charge me for the waxing, and I thanked her, and then she ran my charge card and I gave her a five and asked for 2 bucks back and SHE LOOKED PISSED.

Okay, I've never had a job where I depended on tips, so if I was in the wrong, please tell me. But $3 was a 20% tip to someone who had just gotten fucking WAX in my hair. Am I wrong to think she was lucky to get a tip at all?

Oh, it gets better, folks! When I got home and started to blowdry my hair, my comb caught in my hair. You guessed it, there was still wax in my hair!

Rage. Hulk rage. Hulk smash everything in apartment and then Hulk drive back to Supercuts and smash all the mirrors! RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE.

But at this point, I just wanted to stay home and watch TV and read and be miserable in private and not drive back to the salon where, let's face it, she wouldn't be able to do anything more than she'd already done, so I went online and found out how to get wax out of hair. Several sites recommended olive oil, which---and please try to contain your shock---I happened to have in my pantry, so I hopped in the shower and massaged it into my hair as gently as I would caress a tiny kitten, and I finally managed to get most of it out. Although I have a Cameron Diaz There's Something About Mary jizz cowlick thing going a little bit on the side and I smell like a bread plate at an Italian restaurant, at least I don't have a bald spot.

For now.