The Hairdresser

There are some men that, even though its heinously judgmental and blatant stereotyping, just look like they not only enjoy the company of other men, they fucking love it. The hair, the clothes, the voice, the mannerisms, (I get how much of shit person this makes me, but lets be real, its not a stereotype without merit) all scream, “I’m here and I’m FABULOUS”! And that was The Hairdresser. He talked the camp talk, walked the camp walk, was fashionably dressed (skinny jeans right when they were emerging), great hair (though that’s a given for any hairdresser really) and he called me “darling”. I would’ve sworn black, blue and blind that he batted for the other team, up until we were out one night and he stuck his tongue down my throat. Got over my shock, enjoyed the moment, lent back and yelled (over the music) “aren’t you gay?!” to which he just laughed and called us a cab.

Fair play m’boy, fair play.

Back at my place, he went on to prove that even if he wasn’t entirely straight, he definitely knew his way around the female anatomy. But then he was so fussy after about his hair and clothes etc that to this day I still get confused when I think back to that night. It was a once off, never happened again, and I’d love to know his orientation and identification these days.

Because seriously, eye liner, COME ON!

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