LA Hotspot

At this point, we all know where at least one of the nightlife hotspots is in Los Angeles. Anyone who reads TMZ.com knows that Hyde, Les Deux, Shag, Mood and the Boom Boom Room (ok, I made that last one up) are the places to be for all the action. If you want to rub elbows, or anything else, with the likes of Lohan, Hilton and Richie just head to any of those locales (or apparently, the 134 freeway).

BUT there is a magical place in Los Angeles that appears to offer a fine selection of men, and you get pampered in the process. That’s right people—I’m talking about my hair salon. I sense disbelief. Tsk tsk. Would I lie to you? Sure, you’re right, I would, but in this case, not so much.

In the last six months, I’ve met two guys at the hair salon. And not necessarily metro guys either. Why? My hair stylist is determined to set me up.

Much like the priest and bartender before her, my hair stylist seems to operate a confessional, and she is determined to toss me back into the dating world.

I’ve known her for years, so she’s heard the relationship drama. She’s also a dating world convert—she met her husband on match.com after seeing the end of her own 10 year relationship. She’s on a mission.

The first time she tried to fix me up, the timing was… well… let’s just say not optimal. It was the afternoon I caused the black-out because I found out the ex was getting married. The only thing I remember is that there was a guy coming in after me, and she wanted to introduce us. I don’t remember what he looked like. Don’t remember his name. I’m only vaguely certain that he was male. Yeah, not a whole lot of processing of new information that day.

So, she called that one a wash, and chalked it up to a bad moon.

The second time was this weekend. There was a guy in the chair before me. I was under the dryer trying to keep the hair die from dripping down my face—although I’m sure I could rock the hair dye streak face look, if I really wanted to… Again, I didn’t really pay attention to said guy. I was busy reading a fascinating article about Hillary Duff and dabbing at dye.

I’m fairly confident now that he may have had some sort of mental disorder. He told her quietly that he thought I was cute, and asked for an introduction. Cute? Is there a dripping hair dye fetish group that I’m not aware of? I’ve got a big, black drop cloth on me, my hair is mid process, and the concept of make-up was nowhere in the back of my mind. Yeah, he had to be disturbed.

Anyway, he wandered off to go do something, and we started working the magic that would make me into a supermodel (just as soon as they change those height, weight and looks restrictions, of course).

I’m at the point during the haircut where I’m sporting the “Cousin It” look, and set-up guy is back, ostensibly to pay his bill. At which point, we get introduced. He actually seemed like a very nice guy, I think, probably…yeah, I don’t actually know. He smiled and had a nice handshake. He said something like “nice haircut”, which would have been a lovely compliment—but I was still working the “Cousin It” thing (wet hair hanging entirely in front of my face). So, I laughed. And then realized he was serious. Really came out more like an awkward moment at that point than anything else.

Yeah…

0 for 2 so far, but I am confident that I have many more potentially embarrassing encounters to come—1 at least every 6 weeks. Good times!

Kate