A Turkish 3some

A long, long time ago when Dubya was ruining the world and Lady Gaga wasn't, I was a struggling actor trying to make it in the big shi-tay aka NYC. Only months after moving there did I realize that talent had absolutely nothing to do with success. A good hairstyle was the key! I came to New York with long, coarse curly hair that would easily dread if I didn't wash it for a few days (which occurred very often, as I was severely depressed for a while and gave up showers). Month after month, I would go to auditions just to be ridiculed and laughed at. What was a nappy headed girl to do?? After a while, I had enough of all the rejection and finally mustered up the courage to chop it all off. I marched right into this tiny hair salon in Astoria (the city I lived in at the time) and ordered them to make me over. A tiny, bald turkish man decided he would be the one to take on this task.

His name was Baja, and we immediately fell in love. He was older, barely spoke any english and reeked of turkish cigarettes. However, he transformed me from an awkward Rob Zombie lookalike into an awkward Posh Spice lookalike. I couldn't have been happier. I wrapped my arms twice around Baja's 90 lb frame, and when I hugged him I heard his back crack.

One morning I had to get my hair done for professional headshots that I was taking the next day. When I walked into the hairsalon, Baja wasn't there! I panicked, grabbed the front desk receptionist by the collar and begged her to help me. She pushed me away, and told me that another hairstylist, Sarcon, would help me with this disaster.

Sarcon was different. He was tall and strong and had a creepy, I-wanna-rape-you smile. Although he was bald and turkish as well, his english was perfect and he didn't smell like Camel Turkish Royal. I was immediately turned off from him. I sat in his chair and he took a long whiff of my hair. "Mmmmm...you are a very beautiful girl."

"Thankssssss..." I mutterered, staring down at my 3 day-old crusty pajamas I crawled to the salon in.

Sarcon asked me if I would like a brighter red color for my hair. I wasn't sure if it was such a good idea, considering I was going to get my headshots done the next day, but he insisted upon doing so. "Welllll...ok. Sure, why not?"

Sarcon procedes to put the dye in my hair. Time goes by, and as I am waiting for the color to process, Sarcon comes over and stands right in front of me, his crotch inches away from my face. His rape-smile is ever present.

"You are very sexy. I've decided to invite you to engage in a threesome with my wife and I."

I almost choked. "Excuse me?"

Sarcon continued, "My wife and I have been together for a few years and I am not a cheater. However, she allows me to have threeways as long as she is into the 3rd partner and I know she would just love you."

I catch myself in the mirror and I notice 2 things: 1. my eyes are so wide with shock that they look like they will fall out of my sockets, and 2. my hair is flaming, fire-crotch red.

"Ha ha...thaaanks but I don't think my boyfriend would be cool with that. I do appreciate you thinking of me for the job though!"

I didn't know what to do. Half of me wanted to turn around and smack the tribal tattoo right off his shoulder. The other half was freaking out over Lindsay Lohan's vagina on my scalp.

"Ok! But the offer is always available!" Sarcon finally finishes my hair and I have to hold back tears. I leave the salon and bump into a small child with his mother. "MOMMMYYYY LOOK AT HER HAAAAIR!! IT'S SOOOOO RED!!! SHE LOOKS LIKE A CLOWN!!!"

I smack the child and run home crying. I never went back to see Baja or Sarcon, it was just too much to bear. A few months later, I moved to South Florida and from then on, I have strictly only seen female hairstylists. And the new headshots didn't help score any new jobs, anyways.

The woman with a desperate need to find the perfect Orange Juice.

I get that I live in sunny Florida, where the locals are most proud of their citrus. However, this was just unnecessary. Nobody should love orange juice this much.
I was grocery shopping after work with my husband, Matt. It was Monday after work and we were exhausted; however, our grocery store is awesome and we like to visit and see the sights. Some people visit museums; I visit my grocery store. That‘s just how I roll.
I decided to test my culinary skills and cook spaghetti squash with balsamic beans. I was super focused on my task; so much that I didn’t see/hear/acknowledge the messy looking woman in front of the orange juice section. I’m in grocery store-zone, and nothing could distract me right now.
All of a sudden, I am taken aback by a mumble. “Kuh uh burruh yuh phuh?” I look up and see that I am face to face with a B rated version of Heidi Fleiss.
“Excuse me?”
“Kuh uh burruh yuh phuh?”
I see that she is staring at my phone lodged in my pocket. “Oh, you want to borrow my phone?”
“Juh fuh a suckin. Muh phuh bruhk.”
I sigh. This is the situation that I HATE being in, that I try with all of my might to avoid. Once I am in grocery store-zone, the only people that exist are myself, Matt, the sweet old check out lady and the mentally retarded bag boy. That is my happy family, and there is no room for Heidi Fleiss.
“Ok, I guess you can borrow my phone…”
“Uhh thunk yuh”. She nearly bites the phone out of my hand and starts dialing. I try to stand away from her, give her some privacy. I feel good about myself! I did my mitzvah of the day, helping this poor ex madam get a hold of someone she desperately needed to talk to. Maybe she was running away from her past life and trying to start over, going to culinary school to become a cook. Chef Heidi Fleiss, making the world a better place.
All of this is going through my mind when I notice that 5 minutes have gone by and she has disappeared. I look around and see her pacing through the orange juice section, laughing and having a gay ol time. I make eye contact with a grocery store attendant who looks like Biggy Smalls, and he is shaking his head at me, clearly thinking I am a big pussy. Not one to lose my street cred, I approach her, trying to keep my cool.
“Excuse me?”
She doesn’t hear me/ ignores me. .
“HELLO? Are you done with my phone yet?”
Heidi turns around, surprised to see me there. “Yuh, gimme a suc, I need tuh know wuh orunge juhc tuh buhy” I am ready to drop a bitch at this point but I looove my grocery store and would be really depressed if I got kicked out. I take a deep breath (the super deep breath that they teach you in Pilates) and walk away from her so she could finish up. I’m thinking to myself, she’s probably just going to say good bye now. I mean, that’s what I would do and she should be happy to have met such a kind, giving person such as myself. Just be patient…
I look over and see that she is in NO rush to end her conversation! I walk over and Heidi is still trying to figure out what orange juice to buy! This is not a woman who is trying to change her life for the better; she’s probably out right now buying orange juice for the whole damn brothel!
I’ve reached my limit at this point. I storm over, take the phone right out of her hand, end the conversation and walk away. I hear her apologizing behind me, but I am not ready to accept. I was in grocery store- zone, after all.