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

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.