Part III’s been a longtime coming and I think I know why. Reading all the signs he showed me about his asshole-ry, I’m a little embarrassed that I let it go on for so long. In hindsight– which is always 20/20, somewhere around the post-midnight ride to the train on our second date, I should’ve stopped taking his calls. Only because I promised the whole story, will I share it with ya’ll. Hopefully you’ll see the signs of fuckery in my story and if you ever encounter this type of dude, you’ll dead it sooner than I did.
He asked me how else I wore my hair. I didn’t know what he was getting at, but I told him anyway. The gist of it is, it’s either out, in a high poof, held back with a head band.
“How long is it when it’s straight?” he asks.
“I don’t straighten it,” I tell him. “It’s a matter of principle.”
He looks not pleased. “Never?”
I tell him I did it 3 months ago for the first time in a few years. I don’t plan to do it ever again. The fear of water in all its forms terrorized me for 10 days. That, and no one–even close friends– recognized me and I look better with fluffy hair.
He takes that all in, nods, and tells me, “You know why you get away with your hair like that?” He doesn’t wait for the an answer. “It’s cause you have a pretty face.”
I think he meant that as a compliment. I was offended. I glance at the clock, which reads almost One, and pushed his legs off my lap. “It’s time for me to go,” I announce, reaching for my Louis.
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