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.

I heard the girl next to me gasp and both Sara and I turned to see Mel banging her drawers open and closed. Her body language was one of an unfortunate internal battle. She didn’t want to say it. Really, but any self-respecting woman would have taken a swing at this girl 20 minutes ago, let alone suffer through her demands for 45. Mumbling into the top drawer at first, then quickly gaining confidence, Mel swung around to face her, but spoke with an enviable level of calm. “I said, I would keep cutting your hair if I could find it, but it just so happens that your head is so far up your ass, that I just can’t seem to get at it.” Then she smiled. A really really scary smile. It was at that moment that somewhere, deep down inside, I knew that I would have to have this girl on my side, and never, ever as an adversary. This unconscious resolution was made, of course, ignorant of the fact that she and I, in a bizarro coincidence, were knocking boots with the same pair.

Imagine my fear when I stopped by two weeks later to say hi to my new favorite stylist only to have Scary Smile turn on me.