He’s a Gay Hipster Boy

I have a hard time finding this hair salon that is tucked away in a strip mall downtown between a hip thrift store and a Mexican food store.  I feel awkward off the bat, the people who sit in the waiting room look like they’ve tried out for American Idol or go to that gay club called Amsterdam that I never go to, but I always hear a lot about.  I sit down and put my toes towards me, the way I do when I’m uncomfortable.  I’m there to see an old friend of mine who has become a super successful hair stylist at a hipster salon downtown.  He’s a gay, hipster boy with a blue mohawk and an inviting smile.  He talks like a girl a little, and cuts my hair with purpose and soft hands and despite the hipness of the experience, I will never go to another hair stylist again.

He says,

"I got a job in Paris and was living in the South of France for a while."

He says,

"I’m doing all of these hair shoots for Java Magazine."

He says,

"You remember when we did E and went to that strip club?"

He says,

"So what have YOU been up to?"

And I say,

"I’ve been watching a lot of reality TV."

It’s more awkward than I thought it would be, especially when we talk about all the people we used to know.  But they play that song True Affection by The Blow and I melt away a little in the chair, that song makes me crazy.  I say, "this place plays good music."

and he says,

"how do you feel about Justice?"

I say that it’s good for people whose family members were murdered or someshit, but he says they’re a band, and I feel dumb.

I have my 1920s Speakeasy Party and it’s a moderate success.  Everyone dresses up, and I dance to Le Tigre, eat a beef slider, bread with tomato and laugh loud when the boyfriend dips me and spins me in the middle of the living room.  My hair is awesome and my friends are smart and funny and inspiring.  I feel good.

The next night the boyfriend and I watch season one of The Real World while my legs are draped over his lap on my futon and the new roommate makes jokes and drinks gin and diet coke with us. 

Tonight I sit with the new roommate/IT guy from work, and we talk about the show he’s producing, and I finally tell him what I think of the scripts, which is that they’re typical, dude comedies, and the female characters suck.  He agrees, and we drink Oakleaf, talk about how gross it is, and go through his DVD collection of bad movies and obscure comedy.  

I take a long shower and decide the shower is my favorite place in the house, besides right here on my giant red futon.  

I try and fuck the boyfriend last night even though I’m on the second day of my period, I was too drunk to care, and he films a blow job with his cell phone camera and I feel stupid today, but sexy last night, blood and all.

I get a ride home from the office today with Sexually Inappropriate Guy and a fellow editor.  They say on the way home,

"mind if we stop at the reptile store?"

which is not a question I’m used to hearing.  I say yes, but feel like saying no.

We wonder around a tiny, tiled floor shop and look at caged reptiles that probably eat small rodents, I’d probably cringe if I saw them feed.  I pass price tags that say 4,000 dollars and I want to vomit.  They spend at least an hour, starring at small, slimy reptiles like they are porn cocks or pieces of fine art, and finally I step outside to call my Mom, after I can’t pass the hissing cockroaches for the 17th time.  

I miss my Mom, good food, having money, and game systems that were more user friendly.