Okra, Fries and Finding Mr. Right
That time I woke up with Ziggy Stardust
The party was overflowing with bodies, but he still stood out. His hair was that succulent hue of darkish-reddish brown that seemed to get darker as it moved away from his roots. It was a curly, wavy mass of disarray that fluttered around his temples and forehead. He looked like the reformed version of a mad scientist.
He smiled and simultaneously ran his fingers through his mane — and I knew. This was a guy who understood the power of his hair. He introduced himself as Victor and extended his hand. I reciprocated and immediately felt the heat under my armpits.
I hastily excused myself and headed for the restroom. When I emerged, he was standing in front of me. Startled but intrigued, we proceeded to bond over our love for cocktail meatballs, sangria, and crazy cool hair. He was bi-racial which explained the texture. His mother was from Zambia and his flaky father a successful German businessman. When he announced that he was a hairdresser, I was prompted to give him a better look. He was impeccably dressed, impossibly vain, and distracted by his fiery locks.
Smiles, hand gestures and hair references did nothing to sway me one way or the other. I was too wasted and stuffed to care. I just wanted to straddle him and run my fingers through that gorgeous mane. When my haze subsided, I realized that I was actually enacting my fantasy. Then the euphoric state returned.
I woke up the next morning with a massive headache, surrounded by what appeared to be hair products. Victor knelt over me. Dazed and confused, I abruptly sat up and reached for my hair. “What are you doing?” I inquired as I noticed that not only had I been stripped of my clothing, but my hair was drenched in gel.
He answered with a disturbing sense of urgency, “Your hair literally feels like straw! I was trying to play around with it to see what works.” His arms were laced with tattoos, his eyes rimmed with black eyeliner, his chest had hints of glitter splayed all over it, and his hair looked like it had just been released from extra large curlers.
He was the bugged out version of Ziggy Stardust and I was freaking out. I was quite certain that we hadn’t slept together. And as I scanned the room, I was convinced that he was batshit crazy. Wigs mixed with vibrant accessories manifested my worst fear.
I leapt out of the bed and grabbed my clothes and clutch. He came towards me and my heart stopped. His tighty whities confused me as he lifted his hands. I cowered in fear. He laughingly pleaded, “I just need to wash the conditioner out!” But I was done. I wasn’t amused. In fact, I was silently promising God that I would forfeit sex for a month if he got me out of this.
I made it out. Victor’s laughter hauntingly followed me down the block and it wasn’t until the doors of the train closed that I was able to breathe again. I didn’t have sex for two months and my next conquest was perfectly bald.
Cocktail Meatballs Ingredients
1 pound lean ground beef, 1 egg, 2 tablespoons water, 1/2 cup of bread crumbs, 3 tablespoons minced onion, 1 (8 ounce) can jellied cranberry sauce, 3/4 cup chili sauce, 1 tablespoon brown sugar, 1 1/2 teaspoons lemon juice
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