Make you say "huh?"

I saw something this weekend that I didn’t understand. I went to Chop Stix for dinner with Scott and Juleanne. The place was packed, and our table was next to the bar where a lot of people were waiting to be seated.

There was one group there that has me confused nearly a week later. There were five people in the group, two men and three women. All five were in their late 20s or early 30s. The girls were all strapped into extremely tiny skirts. One wore a bustier. At least one wore a thong (I’m only sure about the one because she flashed our table while readjusting on the barstool in her tiny skirt).

All three girls had cute little bodies and less than cute faces (butter faces, as Scott calls them, as in “She’s got a great body, but her face…”). Each man was obviously with one of the three women. The third (the confirmed thong girl) wasn’t with a date. Her dateless-ness didn’t stop both men in the group from touching her repeatedly throughout the night.

In fact, both men touched all three women while they waited for a table. Not just a handshake, a kiss on the cheek, or a friendly punch on the shoulder, these men were caressing each of the women. There were back rubs, stroking of the hair, playful tugging on the tiny skirts, hugs, hip caressing, neck rubs. It was all very odd. One guy was kissing his girl with his hand resting in the small of another girl’s back.

I spent most of the evening ignoring the conversation at my own table while trying to figure out the relationship between the five people next to us at the bar. We finally came to the conclusion that either there was some ménage five action or the men were pimps.

It reminded me of a game that I like to play in Gainesville. It is called “Girlfriend or Daughter?” The best time to play is while walking down University Avenue on a Friday night or anytime during a game weekend. You play like this – observe a couple comprised of a young girl and an older man. Guess, in competition with your friends, whether you are seeing a “Daddy’s Little Girl” or a “Girl with Sugar Daddy.” Trust me, it isn’t as easy as it sounds. The only surefire way to determine the truth is waiting for the couple to start making out.

…but then, we do live in Alachua County, so you never know.

New look

I haven’t gotten my hair cut since January. I’ve been a little wary about the salon since I spent two days crying over bleach blonde hair after my last visit. My mom had an equally harrowing trip to the salon where the stylist insulted her intelligence and the shape of her neck before hacking off a chunk of hair from the back of her head and sending her home with a super short cut.

It is no wonder that we are both uneasy making appointments at the salon. That, of course, is why it took me eight months to get a trim. My mom ventured out first and found a stylist that she really liked. She got a great cut and left feeling confident. She made me an appointment with her new-found stylist.

I drove from Gainesville straight to the salon for my appointment. I wore an apple green polo shirt and a white skirt. I met Mom in the parking lot. She wore an apple green sweater and white pants. Yes, I showed up at my appointment as my mother’s twin.

The stylist started my shampoo and asked why I had drive all the way from Gainesville for a haircut. I told her that my mom had gotten a good haircut and suggested I come here too.

I think my stylist stopped listening after, “My mom got a good haircut.”

I gave her the full run-down of what I was looking for in my cut. Long layers. Final cut just brushing my shoulders. Long layers. I liked the cut I had last time, it just needed to be shaped up since it was getting long. Long layers.

I wasted my breath. I think that our matching apple green and white outfits were too much for the stylist to ignore, and she proceeded to give me my mother’s haircut. Mom was perched in the chair next to mine, acting as the perfect model.

I didn’t realize how much she was cutting until she started the final layer. The stylist finished up my butchering and left to check someone’s perm. I told Mom we had to leave before she dried my hair. I was scared I might cry when I saw how short it was. I pressed payment into the stylist’s hand and ran out of the door (my now even-more-twin-like mother following behind me).

At this point I should note that Mom has a nice haircut, just not a haircut that I wanted to get myself. I don’t think I’ve had hair this short since birth.

Mom and Katie were nice, telling me over and over again that it was cute. The cut wasn’t necessarily me, but it was cute. They were reassuring, but with the longest of my hair barely grazing the nape of my neck, I felt naked. Dad said that it makes me look young and hip.

I showed up at work on Monday to choruses of “It’s cute!” which is girl-language for “Wow, did you do that on purpose?” A guy at work told me that old women got short haircuts. Scott told me that it looked good…from the front. The people I worked with at Shands were more straightforward. One asked if I had stabbed the person who did this to me. Another asked if my haircut was intentional.

I’m still optimistic, even after what appears to be another hair mishap. The high points of the haircut:

1. This massacre has nearly removed all evidence of the hair color mishap from January.
2. I can wake up and be at work in 45 minutes.
3. A vigorous rub with a towel and a few toasty blasts from the hair dryer can dry my hair.
4. I will save fortunes in rubber bands since my hair can’t even imagine a ponytail at this length.

I’ll let you know how my next haircut goes. Ask me next September.