T. G. I. F.

I must have checked my phone at least a hundred times before noon. Still no response. I mean how in the hell does a man function without responding to a hot girl within a 24-hour period. I’ll say it, I’m hot. Not like a “dripping in sex” kind of way, but I mean come on, I wasn’t unfortunate looking. In my Facebook profile picture I was about an eight or nine out of ten; granted I am the one doing the scoring. Now if we’re talking just woke up in the morning, I’m generally a solid six or seven. Which doesn’t necessarily constitute as “hot,” but it’s something I can work with. A good base for makeup and expensive haircare products.

I get back to the coffee shop, where I work, from lunch break and Ryan, a boy I went to high school with who makes sandwiches in the back, eyes me as I walk in. Ugh, I hate it when he does that. It’s so creepy. I clock back in at 1:02 P.M. It’s always slow at a coffee shop in the afternoon. I pull out my phone. Again, nothing. I start reactively scrolling through my Instagram. I stop on an adorable little lass with curtain bangs, perfectly framing her face. Her curls ring up around her earlobes and she has one dimple on her left cheek. I think to myself, ‘This must be where the expression “cute as a button” came from.’ Lately everyone is getting that stupid shag haircut. It really only looks good on girls with naturally curly hair. Mine is bone straight. Man, I want that shag cut. It would never work though. I screenshot the image anyway. Saving it for a later date until I get bold enough or drunk enough to go through with it.

Finally, 4:30 rolls around and I grab my faded, jean jacket I stole from my dad and clock out. Just as I go to put my phone in the pocket, it vibrates. Finally. The Facebook message I’ve been waiting for since 10 P.M. yesterday evening. It’s from Becket Baker. Becket Baker has a perfectly sun bleached, beachy wave man bun, doesn’t workout but naturally has a fit body with abs, and drinks red wine. Becket Baker is way out of my league. And let’s face it, he’s the reason I go to The Wine Lab every Friday night. He doesn’t know I exist, but my sister Steph is the one that suggested I look him up on Facebook. She also may be the reason I decide to move away due to embarrassment if this doesn’t work out. It’s a small town and this is a big leap for me.

Let me break this down for you, it’s Wednesday. So that means on Tuesday night at about 10 P.M. I randomly decided to message Becket. I have no idea what provoked me. Actually, I do, it was the bottle of Merlot I purchased on Friday from The Wine Lab after I saw Becket drinking it. He was wearing a heather grey Patagonia sweater that was almost too tight for his biceps and laughing with, I’m assuming, work colleagues. And damn, it was good too. ‘Of course, he would have good taste in wine,’ I thought as I took the first sip. Now, and I’m not proud of it, but I had the audacity to message him, “Hey Becket, saw you at the wine lab last week, looks like you’ve been hitting the gym lately ;) maybe we can share a bottle sometime?” Winky face and all. Not to mention I forgot to capitalize The Wine Lab.

I woke up the next morning wanting to die. Both from the hangover and from the humiliation. But today, Wednesday, at 4:43 P.M., almost 19 hours later, I get a reply,

“Hey Sally! Thanks! Not sure what to say. I don’t workout much but like to hit the rock gym here and there. Love The Wine Lab! Maybe see you around.”

Right?! I mean come on... that’s it? I honestly didn’t even expect him to respond though, so I guess this is a good start. He’ll be there Friday. I open my photos and stare at the picture of the girl with the perfect curls and the shag cut. Fuck it. I call Shoshana, my hair stylist, and let her know what’s up. She extends her day tomorrow an hour to fit me in. Just in time for Friday night.

Thursday just before noon, I’m staring at the picture of the cute girl with the curly, shag-cut hair on my phone, drinking black coffee, and watching the fly in my too small apartment crash into the kitchen window for the umpteenth time. I slam what's left of my coffee and muster up enough courage to head over to Shoshana’s work. Trying to have a “slay all day” attitude and keeping in touch with my inner badass B, I bust into Shoshana’s ready for action. She’s a cool B too. Super motivating and on par with my somewhat fake façade I have rolling in order to keep up the confidence for what I’m about to do.

Without a word, I show Shoshana the girl on my phone. We lock eyes and she knows what I’m about. Doesn’t even try to talk me out of it but, instead, moves on to talk about some lady at Whole Foods that stole her parking spot. And this is why we love Shoshana.

What feels like five hours later and after going through some kind of chemical experiment, where my head itched and burned and tingled all at the same time, I’m spun around in her chair to face myself again. Only who is this sassy little Bisnatch I see in front of me? Shoshana, Shoshana, Shoshana. My word that woman has a gift.

I’m nothing like the girl in the picture, but I’m some kind of new late 70’s early 80’s rocker chick. And I’ll be darned, there is some curl in my hair. I have the curtain bangs, only they’re a little longer and kick-out near my cheekbones and perfectly frame my face. Wow, you can actually see my face now. Before I had a kind of dark mop that, apparently, hid every definition my face had before. Shoshana made my hair lighter in color towards the end of every layer so that it looks like I spend a decent amount of time in the sun. Which kind of works with my Italian skin. I am impressed. If looks could kill, I’d about do it. Never in a dress though. Definitely not. This is the type of hair that only works with vintage clothes or Levi’s.

Friday morning, I’m feeling feisty, per usual. I have my hair up in a chopstick bun and let my new, curtain bangs frame my face. I’m wearing a red, sun-faded bandana around my neck and some Sexy Mother Pucker lip gloss on my lips. Which feel like they’re about to vibrate off my face. Love that shit. Never mind focusing all day at work. There is no way. I’m too excited about tonight. Ryan asked me out though. Must be the new hair. I told him I was seeing someone. Wasn’t a total lie. Hopefully after tonight, I will be. I’m supposed to meet Steph at The Wine Lab at seven.

I arrive at 6:45 P.M. wearing gladiator sandals, a denim skirt, a white ribbed tank, and my scarf still wrapped around my neck. Becket isn’t here yet. My phone buzzes. It’s my sister, “Sorry sis, can’t make it. Liam threw up all over me and isn’t feeling well. XOXO.” Great. Now I look pathetic taking up a table by myself. It’s a pretty crowded spot. Nothing too special. Some picnic tables sit in a parking lot out in front of a warehouse-type district. LED lights are strung overhead and music like Bon Iver or Portugal the Man plays in the background. It’s a nice spot in the spring because the cement makes it a warm evening hangout.

It’s 7:03 and right as I get up to leave, I hear, “Leaving so soon?” I turn to see Becket’s smile. I tell him my sister couldn’t make it because my nephew got sick and that I don’t want to take up a table alone. He chuckles and asks to sit with me. Suddenly it’s not my lips that feel like they’re about to fall off, it’s my kneecaps. Becket’s cologne is intoxicating. He smells and looks so incredibly good. He’s wearing an unbelievably worn-in, white tee, sandals, and sun faded blue jeans that are rolled up around the ankle. He chose to wear his hair down tonight. Which is naturally curly, highlighted by the sun, and looks like he just got off of a sailboat.

After one of the most amazing nights of my life, Becket walks me back to my car. He says to me, “I was impressed with your drink order. Everyone I know gets the Rose in the springtime.” I laugh and say, “I’m not like most girls,” knowing that’s what he meant by “everyone.” He laughed harder than I expected and said, “I know, that’s why I like you.” Then leaned in and gave me a kiss goodnight. I crawled into bed feeling like it was a cloud. Best night ever. Just as I was falling asleep, I thought, ‘Thank god I ordered the glass of Merlot.’