“And how often do you have it done?” I ask.
At some point in a relationship you get to a stage where no spoken words are necessary. Paul and I have reached this point. His sidelong glance at me says “Don’t even think about it.” My raised eyebrows and slightly shrugged shoulders say “what, I can’t even think about how a weave would look on my head?”
Tina interrupts our telepathic conversation by pulling out her Blackberry and shows us a picture of herself at 18. “Is that you or Condoleeza Rice?” Paul asks. It’s true. The hair is a dead ringer, but the face is still Tina. She then flips to a more recent photo and suddenly the hair is blonde and full and I guess the best word is dangerous. This time she is Tina Turner.
“That was my Vegas hair.” She says. “I have a cruise coming up so I’ll have real hair woven in because the synthetic stuff curls up and honey, there is no straightening it after it hits the water.”
There are suddenly multiple Tina's. Who is the real one? My head becomes dizzy. I am not sure if it is from the parade of hair choices or the scorpion bowls.
“You should have seen Bill when we first met.” Paul chimes in. I am telepathically telling Paul to shut the hell up, but he is ignoring me. “His online photo looked so clean cut. Then he showed up at the restaurant with a shaved head and goatee. He looked like a biker. He was over two hundred pounds then, but when he got up from the table and walked away, I saw that cute little bu…” “OK, OK, she gets the picture!” I cut Paul off. I decide that it is better to get this conversation under my own control. So I pull out my iPhone and flip to my “biker” look.