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After two weeks of phone chatting, I eagerly awaited our first meeting. It’s the kind of meeting that sends skepticism coursing through your veins, almost like you are scared to even leave the house in expectation that something might ruin what you hope to sustain.
You go through the prep stage, searching for perfection and often overdoing it only to change again at least three or four times. But you know that she makes it all worth the trouble.
My first and last mistake, was the barbershop.
Why is it that barbers never get your hair right when you want to make an impression and style it like there was no tomorrow on laundry day? Upon sitting in the barber’s chair, I insisted that my moustache and beard not be touched. I emphasized the fact that I do my own trimming and it was not necessary. “Please don't touch the moustache.” So what happens? Zip, zip all gone. No more moustaches. My first impulse was to curse like a marine, but that would not be prudent since he still had to cut my hair. Ohhhh, why can't men wear weaves??? Now I am moustacheless and, to most women, this is no big deal, but to a lot of men the moustache is a symbol of manhood. Finally growing one marks the shedding of the eyebrow pencil and infinite mascara. It’s a statement of arrival, Billy DeeHood. Now all gone, no more than shaving on a floor. I felt like Samson after being shaved by Dahlia. It was like Austin Powers losing his "mojo." The whole thing has me fuming at the gills and the "clipper assassin" has the nerve to stand back and admire his work. Why do stylists and barbers always think that they know the best look for you? Like they are wearing it. I bet that after you leave, they all stand around, slapping palms and laughing into convulsions. If people can have bad days and fail to performan , you know barbers do, too - only at our expense. Needless to say, he got no tip that day.
Now, comes the great male "I can fix it myself" phase. So, you evoke all your past bad barber days, all your homeboy knowledge and comprise some insane way to fix what can not be fixed. Another fatal mistake. First thought, "ole faithful," eyelash mascara.
It’s been so long.... I even forgot which brand to buy, let alone the embarrassment of asking, without the clerk asking what you need it for. Finally, at home I apply the product of my redemption. With magic wand in hand, I sort my craft. Why do I punish myself like this???
Thinking I had outwitted fate, I looked in the mirror and saw Groucho Marx in black face. I wanted to cry. But if I did, the mascara would run (I didn't buy waterproof). It was like I had some horrible paint-by-numbers set on my upper lips and the only color was black. And, worst of all, this only exaggerated my ALREADY full lips.
It was too late to cancel the date. And I knew that if I cancelled, I most likely should forget all other possibilities of another one.
I'll always look fondly on that day, for it taught me that if I am to meet someone, I should present myself - not a prepped, refined image, for that is not me. It’s always best to represent you, not who you project.