By the end of the night, I had tossed the contents of my disguise in the backseat and was rushing a certain blond to an undisclosed location. In borrowed wheels--dubbed the "626 of love"-- I found myself speeding south on Connecticut Ave being told words that never seemed truer to me:
"Sugar, it's not just a hair color, it's a way of life."
There's this story that accompanies my night, the one where I ended up in a bar running around and avoiding something that I didn't want to reencounter, and the story is not the most interesting, but I tell it pretty well. But because I learned that if you speak of the devil, the bastard pops up in a tuxedo, it's best that I keep my thoughts, however snarky and awesome they are, to myself--unless you know how to contact me.
One day, I'll tell the connecting tale, but I will say this: when your heart gets broken you will go on some really bizarre dates in an attempt to recover.
I owe thank yous to women (and a certain Mr. X) for keeping me company and not minding when I slid into and out of conversations at a whim. In particular, I owe a thank you to a new brunette who is my own personal whistle blower, a certain woman with a roadster who endured being groped, and another who had smoke blown in her face.
And to the blond with the disguise ready at a moment's notice? I thank you as well.
You're right, lady. It's not just a hair color, it is a way of life. And I'm going to start living it.