You have 10 guesses to figure out who I am:
1) I talk way too loud on my phone
2) I dress like a 1970’s pimp at a pajama party
3) I tell the dozen of compliant women I am surrounded by where their place is
4) I walk around for most of the day stroking the extraordinarily long white hairs that are growing out of the mole on my chin
5) I judge my customers by their color
6) I only understand four words of English and yet, I run an exceptionally profitable business
7) I shampoo my glorious coif with a serum composed primarily of tiger tears and the musk of 1,000 roses from Damascus
8) I had a foot fetish growing up. I’m not completely cured.
9) I always have at least two younger guys hanging out around me. Usually on the couches or lounging in a chair, feeding my pet miniature yorkie.
10) I usually have one very long or bedazzled pinky nail on one of my hands that I like to show off.
WHO AM I?
The Not So Fantastic Reality:
The above story was inspired by the following tidbits I encountered today:
ONE: Tonight I was lucky enough to accompany my loverly mom (aka Ginger Spice) for a fun mother-daughter date. We got things off right by heading to one of Orlando’s better nail salons for a much needed (in my case) pedicure. Now, I am not what you would consider a very girly-girl, and neither is my mom but getting your feet and lower legs pampered while sitting in a behemoth massage chair that can rub, knead, slap and press every inch of your body is hard to pass up. While experimenting with the different chair settings, and wondering what the two ladies rubbing down our feet were saying (are they talking about me?!?!) I noticed what I assumed to be either the manager or owner of the salon. This guy was a character (see picture above). He chatted loudly into his cell phone in a language I couldn’t hope to identify (let alone understand), he drifted up and down the aisle between the manicure and pedicure stations, slouched down on the lounge chair to play with a small dog (Yorkie, I think) and would periodically wander outside to stretch, look around at the world and absently scratch his belly. I was mesmerized by this guy, to the chagrin of my nail tech who kept slapping my feet to get me to switch positions or take them out of the sudsy water, but I couldn’t look away as he passed near my vibrating massage chair. Then. I saw it. It= the longest effing chin hairs growing out of a mole I have ever seen in my life. I mean these suckers were hanging down to about mid-chest, I kid you not. Now, as a semi-proud owner of my own witchy chin mole, I know that those troublesome hairs that tend to jet out can be a bit of a nuisance. Knowing how self-conscious I am about my chin/mole hair I was amazed at the balls (can I say balls?) on this guy for refusing to pluck the tenacious hairs. The things these hairs must have seen in their time… one can only imagine. Two tips of the cap to you, mole-hair dude, two tips of the cap to you.
Love & Squirrels.