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.