Supposedly so. Before I forget the details of last Saturday night, let me share this amusing vignette.
So I played hooky from homework for the entirety of last weekend. It felt fabulous. Saturday night, T.B. and I managed to round up a pretty fun group of people to get drinks at The Chapel again. We were psyched, because we managed to grab the cool seats on the 2nd floor overlooking the people below. We were accompanied by R.S. (Creighton friend), two Evans classmates, and P.N. and K. The latter two are dating, and it became clear that they (along with T.B.) were going to try to set me up with their friend, The Hairdresser.
T.B. and P.N. play on a co-rec soccer team with The Hairdresser. I’d been told that he was born in Korea but had moved to the States when he was young. T.B. said that he had an amazing body (and knew it) and had a very metro fashion sense.
Me: “Is he gay? It sounds like he’s gay.”
T.B.: “No, no, no. He’s straight. I told him you would make out with him.”
Me: indignantly “What???”
T.B.: “Oh, it’s ok. You don’t have to. He just said that he wants to go dancing, because he hasn’t been out in a long time.”
Me: after contemplating T.B.’s initial statement and recalling how Bachelor #5 has been f*cking with my head “Oh, you’re probably right.”
Anyway, flash forward to The Chapel again. The Hairdresser arrived, and I was a little taken aback how old he looked. Turns out that he’s 30-years-old, which isn’t bad. He’s simply been in the sun a lot. When he arrived, K. immediately scooted over to make room for him to sit next to me. I rolled my eyes at my Evans classmates, and The Hairdresser and I pointedly ignored one another, so as not to give our friends the satisfaction (anyone who’s been set up out there knows what I’m talking about–can you feel me?).
As R.S. regaled us with his newfound knowledge that there are indeed two kinds of female orgasms (R.S.–unlike The Hairdresser–is indeed a gay man), I downed a gin & tonic and later a very tasty watermelon martini. We eventually made our way over to The War Room, and had a grand time.
And so the inevitable happened–I somehow ended up dancing with The Hairdresser. He kept running his fingers through my hair. In my gin-addled brain, I thought to myself, “Oh, that’s nice. Wait a minute, this is weird.” Only because he was doing it in such . . . . a hairdresser sort of way.
So we proved T.B.’s prediction to be correct on the dance floor, but only in a PG-13 sense. And somehow, to my dismay, he got invited to my Super Bowl party the next day.
He was the first one to arrive.
It was so terribly awkward, and I kept stalling from going downstairs to let him in, in the hopes that one of my Evans classmates would save me from stilted conversation. I think he was under the impression that I speak more Korean than I actually do, because the alcohol on Saturday night had loosened my Korean tongue. (“괜잖아? 김지가 좋아 . . . .”) He tried speaking to me in Korean, but gave up when I could only say, “몰라 . . . ” (“I don’t know.”)
We chatted for a bit, and finally W.E. came over, although he hastily went to the balcony to arrange the beer, sensing the awkwardness in the kitchen. I hate to be an education snob . . . . but The Hairdresser never went to college, not even community college. Well, I suppose he did go to Hair School. And that’s a truly valid occupation! He does well for himself, judging by the BMW he drove us home in (although if there’s one thing I learned from Korea, it’s that the BMW does NOT make the man).
But . . . I can’t picture myself seriously dating someone who hasn’t pursued at least some measure of higher education. I know that you don’t have to have a degree to be smart or to be an intellectual . . . . but still. I just don’t think I could relate with someone on an intimate level unless they have experience in a university setting. Higher ed, for all its flaws, allows us to expand our minds, our horizons, to challenge us to philosophize (or bullshit well, whatever you prefer).
Anyway, The Hairdresser is a very nice guy. I have a standing offer for a free haircut (I guess his normal rate is $60!). But I think we’ll just be friends . . . .
Why is it that the ones you don’t see a future with show up at your door on Super Bowl Sunday with Costco pizza, and the ones you do see a future (#5! grrrrr) with prefer to drive you crazy by saying they’ll call “tomorrow” (which is code for “I’ll send a lame text message two weeks later”)??
It’s a rhetorical question. As N.G. wisely said, “If I knew the answer to that, I’d be a rich woman.”