As promised, a glimpse into Friday...

As promised, a recap on Project: Bottle Blonde… So, Friday, I left work and went to lunch… it was a fine lunch marred only by the guy with the 3 year old who kept trying to use his kid to get my attention. There was a lot of testosterone flowing in the pizza place where I decided to lunch; construction workers, college students, guys in suits—it was a veritable buffet of men of all ages, races and shoes sizes for anyone interested. Oddly, I was not. I appreciated the attention I received, but could really have cared less.

Since lunch did not last as long as I had hoped (there was also an unusually high number of children in the place running around), I decided to do a little shopping. I have been searching for a sweatshirt that is not hideous and it not a million sizes too big for me—this, it seems, has been a far larger task than I had originally thought. But, I like a challenge… I also like repeatedly making the same mistakes over and over again as I stopped by Steve & Berry’s to peruse the selection of Michigan sweatshirts… And they have a lot, but I don’t want one with a hood on it. So, I opted for their long sleeve tees. I found a very nice white one with pink lettering in the men’s section. Perhaps I am the only one, but doesn’t it seem odd that the Steve & Berry’s men’s section does not carry the size “small?” So, I bought a medium. The women’s section is really pathetic there, I have to say and I did check out the children’s sweatshirts as well… and there were a couple nice ones, but I didn’t want to try on, and for that, I would have had to. Suffice to say, that while I love the tee, it is long enough to be a mini-dress.

After checking out a few other stores, I stopped off at Starbucks of a highly pretentious latte before making my way to Borders. I didn’t so much shop at Borders as I found a place to sit and admired the shelves of fiction around me while drinking my latte. I did, however, become quite enamored with a book called “The Reasons I Won’t Be Coming” by Eliot Perlman. He writes short stories and this book is a collection of shorts. I was taken by the title and read the story after which the title was taken. It was okay, I suspect the rest of the book is better. The title, I think actually reminds me of one of my friendships; it is an interesting dynamic and though it was close, I may have bought the book had the story mirrored more my own thoughts on the title.

Thankfully, my hair appointment prevented a sick and twisted urge to walk through the self-help section. The self-help section always horrifies and amuses me, then depresses me and I was trying to avoid all that.

Then, I had an experience like no other. The girl assigned to cut my hair also had curly hair. Now, if you do not have curly hair, you will not understand the significance of this—so I will explain. People, and specifically hairdressers, who do not have curly hair, cannot begin to advise you on the tricks and products that will work on your hair—they’ve never had to use them. Now, the good people who have cut my hair and styled it in the past have done a great job, and pointed me in the direction their educations have told them they should point me in. If you want to straighten your hair, these people can help you, but if you want to wear it curly—and trust me, it is easier to do that than to straighten—they just don’t get it. So, when I had someone who knew how curly went, it made a world of difference. No curl enhancers, no weak gels, no shine boost—lots of strong gel, texturizer and styling spray. Diffuse and—Voila! It was fabulous. Of course, when I tried it myself the next day, I did something very wrong (think Gilda Radner on SNL), but that is another story for another time.

I should interject here and explain something about the significance of selecting the date that I did—yes, it was the launch of Fashion Week, and yes, it was wholly needed for mental sanity, but it was also the anniversary of the death of a friend of mine—or at least as close as I can approximate the date given the lack of information I have. Rich died six years ago, of what, I still do not know and am coming to terms with that I may never know. Each year on the 3rd, I find a bar I think he would appreciate and have a Tanqueray and tonic—it was his drink. I also try to do something that is entirely for me and about me, because it is as he would have wanted it. Rich believed whole-heartedly in hedonism and in taking time for yourself—and he helped me to understand the importance of that.

So, following the hair appointment, I decided that I would go to Ashley’s for the Tanqueray and tonic. I go to Ashley’s quite a bit and thought it was the place to go this year. I ordered the cocktail and took out my little note book and wrote a few notes about Rich and then put the pen away to enjoy the drink and think about what next in the afternoon… What next, indeed!

Sitting at the bar, I met a guy in his 60s, who was very funny and seemed to know everyone in the bar. I hadn’t remembered ever seeing him there before, but he usually wasn’t at the bar—he had his own table in the back. He began to tell me all about everyone there—who they were, what they did, what they studied. He also told me quite a bit about himself. It was very interesting. He then introed me to three other men who came in and were sitting at the bar. Once I had seen on several occasions and he always waved to me when I was in there, though I’d never met him before. Then, there were the other two… one of which I flirted shamelessly with, because hey, sometimes, you just have to and it’s fun.

In looking back on the scene, it was exactly as it should have been.

A gin and tonic and three beers later, I headed out for some dinner and sobriety. I enjoyed more pizza before heading over to Amer’s for a cinnamon scone dessert. After which, I got into my car and heading over to Briarwood. Shopping is always a good way to end a day—especially when you leave the mall with six pair of very cute and sexy underwear and the earrings that you had been wanting. I also found a terrific dress at Marshall Fields, but had that moment in the dressing room where you try it on and think—can I wear a dress this short?? And since it is on clearance, and you know the answer, but don’t want to admit it, you think to yourself: Well, if I only stand in it and don’t sit, it could work. And then, it hits you… and you put the very nice dress back on the hanger and leave it with the fitting room attendant and go home.

And the weekend proceeds on as scheduled.

Mahalo.