Howdy doody blogoroonies,
Following the events of the Big Bogan Weekend, I was feeling a wee bit bored, frustrated, and firmly in my mummy box. I decided the best course of action was— Radical Change *dum dum*.
Firstly, off to see my lovely hairdresser Abbey to get the chop. Abbey looks like Barbie, and is actually a bikini model in her spare time. She is also one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, albeit very high maintence. She openly admits to having called in sick to work becuse she had a pimple. She calles in “calling in ugly”.
Anyway, two inches of hair gone, some chunky layers put in. Not that you can tell because I always have it pulled back into a boring, trying-to-be-messy ponytail/ bun. But I know, and that makes all the difference.
Next stop- the tattooists, to see Hot Piercer Dude. Hot Piercer Dude is a good friend of the Man’s. Last time I got my nose pierced, two years ago, the Man rang Hot Piercer Dude and told him that I was coming in, and Hot Piercer Dude charged me $10 to pierce my nose. Bargain! Unfortunately, that dream ended with me stupidly putting undiluted tea tree oil on it to clean it, and creating a massive scab where the pretty diamond stud used to be.
Since then, Hot Piercer Dude has been to a BBQ at our house. We have run into him numerous times around town. And the clincher- he came to our wedding. Watched me walk down the aisle, give a speech, say farewell. Keep that in mind as the story unfolds.
Now, when I have run into Hot Piercer Dude without the Man, Hot Piercer Dude has made brief eye contact with me, then looked away. I attribute this to him being a shy, quiet kind of guy- the dark, sexy, brooding, still waters run deep kind. I imagined there was some kind of unrequited sexual tension between us, and we were playing the I’ll-Pretend-Not-To-Recognise-You-In-A-Feeble-Attempt-To-Hide-My-Latent-Sexual-Urges game. Fine with me.
So I stroll on into the tattooists, smile and seat myself in the piercing chair, which looks rather like a pyshciatrists couch. Just to make sure he does know that I do, in fact, know him, I comment to Hot Piercer Dude that I hear he’s going to be a father soon. He smiles and mumbles non-commitedly.
After the almost pleasurable piercing process, I ask Hot Piercer Dude the question I really should have asked when I first walked in. “How much?”
“That’ll be seventy dollars”.
“What the flying f%#&? Seventy bleeping dollars? Excuse me???? Abbey the Hairdresser would have done it for $30!! Don’t you know who I am?!”
That what I think, anyway. I only wish I had said it out loud. Instead I blushed, stammered, handed Hot Piercer Dude the $10 note I had gotten out, then wrenched it back and replaced it with my poor old beaten abused key card. Payed my seventy bucks and hightailed it outta there, the stench of humiliation following me all the way. Screw you, Hot Piercer Guy. And the massive flesh tunnel you rode in on in.