The showdown happened, as Trish alluded, at the salon. The funny thing is that I had already heard of Trish. The Attorney (whose name is Thad, by the way – and no, names have not been changed to protect the culpable) had been referring to her for a few weeks at that point. He would casually refer to his “business associate” (which was a tenuous nugget of truth, since she’s a court stenographer and he’s a lawyer, though at the time he never specified her occupation) and the fact that they met regularly to discuss “business.” It didn’t strike me as odd – he is an attorney after all and works crazy hours and meets crazy people all the time. Especially with his brand of lawyerlyness – I assumed she was a client of his – an assumption we still laugh over. Trish having a DUI is about as likely as me becoming a domesticated housewife. The connection, though, was surprisingly easy to make, and when it hit me I wasn’t all that surprised. I take that back – I was surprised at his choice in Trish because we are, as we’ve both mentioned, almost completely opposite from each other. I don’t linger over break-ups. Get it over and done – clean breaks with as little gore and prolonged agony as possible (this blog excluded). That doesn’t mean I go out of my way to be gentle or spare anyone’s feelings when the situation requires it, as with Thad. He barely reacted when I told him I’d met Trish – he just waited to see how much I actually knew, or if I’d give him an opportunity to lie his way out of the confrontation. He didn’t deny it when I asked him if he was sleeping with her. He didn’t even blink, which is perhaps to his credit – that he didn’t shirk the truth, though I’m sure the slimy cretin would have if I’d given him the space to wriggle in. There were no apologies, no specifics given or asked. I refuse to put energy towards someone or something that doesn’t reciprocate. Why throw a big scene or obsessively wonder about the details of circumstances that have already come and gone? There’s nothing to be gained from that behavior – and you usually end up looking like a jackass anyway. This is not to say that I didn’t verbally assault his manhood and moral fiber (or lack thereof), or have the almost irresistible inclination to throw my glass of Syrah in his complacent face like some kind of self-righteous primadonna. In short, I told him off, and when I got home later that night I threw out everything he’d left in my apartment. Why should I return his pomade and infuser and ridiculously overpriced boxers at my inconvenience? If I’m not enough of a priority where you can’t be troubled to keep your pants on outside of my presence then I’m not going to care if you get your fancy-pants, egomaniac Versace cologne back.

Read More to learn how Mel made Trish cry

Let me start by saying that there are 1,143,358 attorneys in the US, and 147,096 active attorneys in New York state alone. They are multiplying like the rabbits in my parents’ backyard. They make a shitload of money (yea, through a hyper-costly certification process followed by ten years of hell), and they still have a novelty sparkle when they give you their card. Did no one tell them about the lawyer standing behind them? And three feet in every direction? But despite the fast-waning bring home-able qualities of lawyers and doctors (Who don’t make shit these days. Show me a plastic surgeon and I’ll show you a perky rich guy with a knife. Where have all the family physicians gone?), we still want to date them, precisely because they are unaware of their own expendability in the professional department. They make us feel like we are dating up. Which is precisely why I was in that salon the day that I fell upon “the other”. Granted, I had no idea she was my shadow (or was I hers? we can’t decide anymore), and to each other, we were little more than client and stylist. Her friend Sara cut my hair that day, but Mel was in the chair next to us, coping with some smug bitch from the UES. The only time this vision in ill-chosen boots spoke was to whine, which is NOT something you do to a trend-setter with shears.
Mel must have heard my story about the Attorney (specifically DUI- eek I know), and enough important facts to be more than a little inquisitive about who exactly this guy was. He sounded familiar, and I could practically see her ears prick. Well, now, in my memory I do. I was actually totally clueless to her fascination with my conversation despite the barking brunette planted in front of her.

Hot Chip had long-since faded into Interpol, which had segued into Rilo Kiley (really? bleh.) and now made a glorious return the sophomoric Faint album.

I looked around the salon, and yes, there was a plethora of important-looking (read: acting) people populating the perfectly assembled, though small and surprisingly not smelly spot, but I had settled into a comfortable chair, with a seemingly down-to-earth stylist. She didn’t even check my jean label as we walked to the sink. It was amazing! My suspicion quickly transformed into relief as we laughed, talked about work and commiserated over silly date anecdotes.

Read More for the Melody “phrase of the day”

I saw Trish when she first came in – it was tragic, I must say. Mostly because she thought she was being so smooth. It makes me smirk even now. And I will confidently admit, with no holds barred, that we are a bunch of bitches at my salon. When people like Trish walk in – who are obviously uncomfortable and out of place – it makes my heart hurt. Briefly. And then I just kind of have to laugh because it’s obvious that they’re trying to fit in but can’t quite make it happen. It’s like spotting a native New Yorker (or at least one who has been here a long time) compared to a tourist or someone just arrived: i.e., it’s a glaring oddity that’s painful to look at but you just can’t turn away regardless of how awkward it is.

I started working at this salon, which shall intentionally remain nameless, during grad school so I wouldn’t starve to death living on a TA’s stipend. I will admit, I was moderately intimidated when I first walked in. There’s a distinct aura of “what the hell do you think you’re doing here?” as their eyes bore into you and you feel your soul start to shrink and ooze out your ears. But the point (my dear, dear Trish) is not to let them know that. You project back as much bitch as they choose to throw at you – it’s an unwritten code, like most selective societies. Gangs. The animal kingdom. The popular kids in high school. Fraternities. And salons. If you show weakness in any form, you will be destroyed, which is not to say that I don’t love it or thrive in that kind of environment because I do. I always have; it’s a curse and a blessing rolled into one big messy and complex heap of crap that I’ve never successfully deciphered or managed to interpret and I ceased trying a long time ago. Everyone has certain things that come easily to them and weird idiosyncratic elements of their personalities for which they are envied — I was always one of the “popular” girls, with everything that goes along with it, and so have largely been despised by other females for most of my life. It hasn’t helped that I’m largely unapologetic for this — and why should I be? Why should anyone apologize for what they inherently are or what comes easily to them? Would you automatically hate the math genious simply because he’s better than you at math? No. So why hate women who can negotiate situations in their favor and seem to have a natural magnetism that others lack? Jealousy doesn’t look good on anyone, like pleated, tapered jeans.

But we get people like Trish into my salon with a fair degree of frequency - mostly friends of regular customers in dire need of help. And such was Trish. Unfortunately, though, I didn’t cut her hair that first day - I was stuck with some wench from the Upper East Side who didn’t know what she wanted and couldn’t articulate much of anything beyond how incompetent she thought I was (what I wouldn’t have given for a baseball bat). But I couldn’t help overhearing Trish gush to my friend Sara about the new man in her life. And just how similar he was to the man in my life, who had been a consistent part of my life for a while at that point but whom I’d been having my doubts about lately. Not just his fidelity, but our compatibility in general. Turns out I was right to doubt.

As my esteemed partner in complicity has pointed out, The Attorney is a douchebag (though no, Trish, I know you would never actually use that word). But in all fairness, he didn’t seem to be a big giant douchebag at first. But when is anyone (male or female) ever upfront about their douchebagishness? I was suspicious when I first found out he’s an attorney because I don’t really date lawyers. They’re not my type. There’s something inherently slimy and insidiously money-grubbing that turns me off. Plus they all tend to use way too much product – yes, it’s a blanket generalization but I don’t care. I’m a stylist (read: blue-collar, not rich, supposedly stupid and can’t get a “real” job) so generally I’m not their type either (and I’m damn good at spotting incorrect product-usage and not afraid to call them out on it). I don’t have a 401K and my stock portfolio consists of 50 shares of something my grandparents gave me when I graduated high school (shocking as it is, I have no idea what stock it is – maybe I’m actually a millionaire and don’t even know it). I cut hair because I love it, not for the money or the prestige (HA!) and certainly not for the arrogant bitches who sit mewling in my chair, perfectly complacent in their disregard for life and its intricate novelties, much less my existence. End of rant. For now.

And so I met the Attorney, which was not a terribly inspiring event. I was having drinks with my friend Kayla whose boyfriend, ironically enough, was just discovered to be a cheating bastard. It wasn’t so much “having drinks” as it was me sitting across the table from her, watching her get more blitzed than I’d seen her since we turned 21 (which was a while ago). I don’t know why people come to me for that kind of shit. My sympathy output is shockingly limited. My friends know this about me, which is why I don’t understand why they would even attempt to rely on me for anything but a modicum of empathy. I will happily analyze the situation over and over again, as any good girlfriend should, but I refuse to lambast anyone simply because they were the dumper and not the dumpee. Just because you get dumped doesn’t mean the other person is automatically evil — I realize this may make me unpopular, but it’s entirely unfair to hate someone just because they are no longer interested, and I won’t participate in those kind of bitch sessions. However, having said that, if the douchebag is actually a douchebag, and not simply the recipient of the wrath of a woman scorned, then all bets are off. If anything I’m probably harsher on my friend’s significant others than they are. What can I say? I’m protective of my friends. But I digress.

While Kayla is wallowing in her 6th vodka tonic and vacillating between hating the jackknife and lamenting the fact that he’s gone and she’s devastatingly single again, I’m scanning the room, hoping there is someone else there that I know and can escape to, as Kayla’s constant avowals to love the cheater forever are quickly shifting from mildly irritating to obscenely maddening. And I see this guy standing, no, sorry, leaning, in the quintessential “I’m looking to get laid” pose, at the bar and he’s staring right at me. I stare back, not because I’m interested but because who the hell does he think he is? I’m not going to play the coy female and pretend I don’t see him, or worse, glance at him every few seconds in the hope that maybe he’ll come over and buy me a drink in the oh-so-tragically stereotypic situation that makes me want to yarf. I think of this as a challenge - if he can hold my eye contact and not look away or give me that smug smirk, suggesting he thinks he knows the kind of girl I am (simply because I’m a female looking directly at him and not blushing) - then maybe, maybe, he’s worth talking to. But the Attorney doesn’t engage in any of that, despite the very posed lean. He walks right over to our table (without breaking eye contact I might add), where Kayla is now in serious danger of teetering off the stool and crashing to the floor, and asks if I’d like help getting my friend into a cab. I just didn’t expect it. Someone offering friendly assistance in this town? Without giving off the impression that he’s acting friendly just so he can try and get in my pants? After half dragging, half chucking Kayla into the cab, he hands me his card and says, “you seem interesting.” He half shrugs, smiles and walks away. That’s it. I realize this is not the smoothest or most original pickup line, but there was something in the simple and direct way he said it that made me want to not immediately throw his card away. I called him the next afternoon (I know, I know, you’re not supposed to call that soon, but how often do those arbitrary dating rules actually work? Especially when both parties know they’re intentionally playing a game with unspoken rules that are constantly fluctuating and changing, depending on the situation?) and we met for drinks the following day. That’s how the Attorney, and all his douchebagery, entered my life.