February 15, 2007
I used to say that I despised flowers.�Don�t buy me flowers. Flowers die. They get messy when you forget about them soaking in water for two months.�
I used to say this because I knew I wasn�t getting flowers � it was my rationale, my way of dealing with significant others who did not think to buy flowers when I was writhing in pain in the hospital or when my birthday crept up all-of-a-sudden-like despite my ceaseless hinting. It was how I dealt with all the girls in high school who had flowers delivered to the main office on Valentine�s Day.
�I don�t like flowers. They�re crap.�
But girls do like flowers.
I realized this when I was surprised nearly two years ago with a nosegay sitting on the middle of my kitchen table after I had minor surgery. I took 14 pictures. For proof.
So, yesterday, after receiving not even a hug or a Happy V-Day, I decided to cheer myself up with a haircut. Haircuts always make me feel better.
The guy who greeted me at Great Clips was about 275 pounds with long, wavy hair. He had a line of hair on his forehead shaved down to a quarter of an inch so it framed his face in a rather disturbing, non-stylist sort of way. His finger nails were longer than most cocaine addict�s and the tattoos strewn about his arms resembled the faded blue pictures one finds on a convicted felon. I sat down, waiting for my turn, repeating �not him, not him, not him � please don�t let him cut my hair,� while �casually� reading a magazine.
�I�m ready for you, Laura,� he said.
�Oh, goody.�
I told him I just wanted a trim to fix the last girl�s layering mistake, and because I didn�t want to charge him with more than he could handle, but once he saw my mangled mess of hair, he started make �tisk tisk� noises.
�This is bad. Way bad. Who cutted your hair?�
�Voluptuous blonde girl.�
�She fucking made a mess of this shit right here! Let me a fix it.�
�Ummm� I just wanted��
�Jus sit yoself down and I�ll get it good.�
�Goody.�
He went on to tell me about his buddy�s �preminilary hearing� and how much it �hurted� when he dislocated his shoulder while working at McDonald�s.
�Man, I hate fucking Valentine�s Day. You know how women are (�yeah,� I said, feeling a bit weird about that one) � they always fucking expect something. Flowers an� shit. All that red and pink candy crap � like I�m made of fucking money. You know how much roses is?�
�No. I hate flowers.�
At the end of the day, one should not judge a felon by his tattoos. Nail Boy did a great job. And, I got a free haircut out of it since my last one was so �fucked up she must have been high on a Thursday.� Or something like that.
I hit the gas station after my salon adventure. The woman behind the counter, whom I�ve known for years, tried to get me to buy a rose.
�Judging by your expression, he didn�t even scribble a heart on a sticky note, huh?�
�Nope. But I honestly wasn�t expecting anything and, besides, I hate flowers.�
�They just die.�
�Yeah. I�ll take this one � with the Baby�s Breath.�
�Gotcha. And here�s a few Hershey Kisses to make your day, sweetie.�
�Thanks.�
�No problem, sweetheart, I know how it is. You can lead a horse to water, but you can�t make him gargle.�