“Oh, stop it! You’re not that old. You look young and you still have all your hair.” “Actually,” he responded sheepishly, “This is a toupee.” “Whatever,” I laughed, “It is not.” Playfully, I reached up to tug his hair to prove it and it came off in my hand.
Mr. Hat Man caught my eye because he was a professional artist. We corresponded over text first. He asked some weird questions like, “What are your addictions?” and “Are you frigid?” When I responded, “I’m a balmy 98.6,” he replied, “You know that’s not what I meant. ;-)” Later, over the phone, when he asked me out for the first time, he said, “Let’s just meet for coffee, in case I don’t like you enough to take you to dinner.”
Momentary aside: Throughout this blog you will find yourself time and again screaming at your computer screen, “What is wrong with you?! Why did you continue to talk to him, much less go out with him?!” The answer is that I am hopelessly, endlessly a giver of the benefit of the doubt. I can explain away almost anything in the tragic hope that people are really good, smart, kind and moral at heart…they just happen to be currently acting like a buffoon because of past pain, self doubt or lead poisoning.
Moving on… We met for coffee. Coffee went fine and I was “okayed” for an immediate dinner. At the restaurant he sat right next to me in the booth rather than across the table from me. (I’d like to note that he placed himself within hair pulling range.)
At dinner he continued a line of conversation that he had begun at coffee, one that I have found many men employ on first dates. It goes something like this. “I’m stupid… hahaha, no really, I’m dumb and boring. I’m a total nerd. And I’m getting old.” Their broken ego comes tumbling out of their mouths and as a kind-hearted woman, I try to catch it and put it back. “No, you’re not! I like nerds. In fact, I exclusively date nerds. You’re not that old, look, you still have all your hair.” And that’s where I went horribly, terribly wrong. Because Mr. Hat Man, in fact, did not. He said, “Actually this is a toupee.” “Whatever, it is not!” I replied as I reached up playfully to tug on his hair to prove it, and it came off in my hand.
I screamed. He screamed. His hands flew to his head to reposition his hair and hat. His eyes wide. I started blathering. “I’m so sorry! Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I thought you were kidding!! Oh my god!” I couldn’t recover. I was too shocked and mortified. Then, inexplicably, this flew out of my mouth. “I have an artificial leg!” He turned, shocked. “You do?!” “NO!!!” I screamed, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that!” And I ran to the bathroom.
I called my best friend from the stall and explained in a panic what had happened. When she could breath again through her guffaws she told me not to worry, he wouldn’t be there when I got back. “Just pick up the check,” she said, “in the most dignified manner you can and go home”
But when I came back, he was still sitting there. I couldn’t look him in the eye. He said, “All I need to know is whether this is a deal-breaker.” I replied, calmly, though my heart was still pounding, “If we don’t end up together it won’t be because of your toupee.”