By Francesca
Getting your hair pulled out by a lunatic isn’t what most people would consider a good omen. But lately I’m not one easily kept down.
I guess you could say I’m on the rebound.
My friend invited me to a rooftop party expressly for singles, what in high school we called a “mixer.” Fresh from my breakup, it was out of my comfort zone but seemed like something I should say yes to.
I decided to flip my thinking and declare it my Single Gal Deb Ball, the event where I’d re-present myself to New York as an eligible lady.
I even wore a white dress.
The dress stopped six inches north of my knees, but, c’mon. We’re not in Kansas anymore.
My two girlfriends and I decided to meet for a glass of wine to gird ourselves for the night ahead. It was an unusually warm night, and we staked out a table beside the open window, with me sitting closest to the street. My Sauvignon Blanc had barely broken a sweat when it happened. I never saw it coming.
A man on the street ran by, reached through the window, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and yanked it full force, almost clear out of my head.
At first, all I felt was being pulled backwards, hard. My first reaction was to slam my hand down on my purse.
Because I’m a real New Yorker.
And as soon as I realized the pain was coming from my scalp, my next thought was, “Did he mess up my hair?”
Because I’m a real girl.
Although the dude pulled my hair hard enough to induce whiplash worse than being rear-ended in a car, my hair hadn’t come out.
Next Pantene spokeswoman, right here.
When I realized I wasn’t being mugged, the attack was over, and I was not bleeding from the head, I finally registered the pain. “OW!”
My friends sat across me, their mouths in identical o’s of horror.
“Ohmigod, are you okay?”
“You were just legit assaulted!”
Whoever said the Lower East Side lost its grit when the Whole Foods arrived has never had a drive-by tweaker try and rip their hair out.
Let it be noted that the couple at the table right next to us stared at me but said nothing. The man was sitting right beside me when it happened, and he didn’t even ask me if I was okay.
I hoped his girlfriend was paying attention.
“Should you call the police?” asked my friend.
I tried to shake my head, but it hurt. “Nah.” The truth was, I didn’t get a good look at the guy, he’d disappeared into the crowded streets seconds after it happened and was long gone by now. “The cops would probably ask me what my hair was wearing.”
“Your hair was kind of asking for it.” My friend giggled.
I realized I could either let this freak occurrence ruin my night, or I could do what I came to do—rebound.
I was a soldier of fun.
Before I could change my mind, I gulped the rest of my wine—nature’s Advil—and we headed to the mixer.
The mixer was held in an incredibly dark, loud bar—perfect for getting to know new people!
Not that I had a chance to survey our options anyway. I’d tweeted a joke about my hair-puller on the way over, and inadvertently prompted a flurry of anxious text messages from my mom. As I tapped away on my phone, trying to reassure her so we didn’t graduate to panicked calls, I hoped I looked busy and in demand.
That’s why we have phones, right?
We noticed some photographers taking pictures of three really, really tall men, the international sign for basketball players. The three of us looked at each other with the identical thought—why not?
I’m wary of professional athletes as boyfriend prospects. I think they have it too easy. But one thing basketball players are good at?
That’s right—the rebound.
So I let myself be chatted up, or, since he was six-foot-seven, chatted down by Darren, an American who plays professionally in Ireland. Being the best basketball player in Ireland might be like being the best surfer in Switzerland, but I was still impressed. And he was actually very nice and down-to-earth. At one point, he asked how old I was.
“I’m twenty-eight,” I said.
“Wow. You look twenty-six.”
This made me laugh—such precision!—but Darren looked at me quizzically. But I guess pro athletes meet enough women to easily size up our player stats. He probably knew my height, weight, and cup size too.
It was time to bounce.
But not before he got my number.
We moved on to a different bar, where a group of my girlfriend’s childhood pals were hanging out. “They have dancing,” my friend said.
I didn’t know if I was up for dancing in the sky-high, mint green, strappy heels I was wearing.
Then I had a beer—nature’s dance instructor.
So I broke it down on the dance floor, but mostly by myself. No one would dance with me. Even the friends I came with had formed a circle that I ended up outside of.
The men at this new bar were apparently immune to my twenty-eight-looks-twenty-six mojo.
Maybe everyone was twenty-five and a half.
But tonight was the night of flipping my thinking. So instead of viewing myself as radioactive, I decided I was a free radical.
Either my attitude adjustment improved my dance moves or I looked like a weakened gazelle, but I caught a guy looking at me from across the room. He was tall, thin, and blond, and his long, angular limbs gave his dancing a comical bent. I thought he looked like Gumby, but not unattractive. He was Hot Gumby.
When I met his gaze, Hot Gumby did the double-fisted point at me. In a generous mood, I pointed back and mimicked his silly dance moves, which I became increasingly unsure were silly on purpose. He shimmied over to me like one of those blow-up tube-men at a car dealership.
He introduced himself, but the music was so loud, I had no clue what he said, even after making him repeat it twice.
Hot Gumby, it is.
“Where do you think I’m from?” he asked, grinning.
I had no clue, and I told him so.
“Guess!”
Outer space? “I really have no idea.”
“GERMANY!” he cried.
Okay, German Gumby.
This guy was not my soul mate, but he was sweet, in a foreign-exchange-student way, so I gave him my number.
(We’ve since been platonic text-message pen pals. I’m helping him with his English, and he tells me what’s happening in soccer whether I care or not.)
But that night, talking with Gumby had broken the seal, and suddenly a lot of dudes wanted to dance with me—all creeps.
Men are like magnets, you need one to repel one.
I tapped one of the guys in our circle of friends who I had met a few times and liked. I thought he looked like a ginger Matt Damon.
“Will you dance with me for a minute?” I asked.
“Me? Really?”
I mean, how charming is that?
Dancing with him, I had more fun than I had had all night. Making the first move is awesome—no wonder men do it.
We danced until my feet hurt, and I’d forgotten all about the missing patch of hair at the back of my head.
You can’t control if a guy lets you down, or if the boy likes you back, or even if a psycho pulls your hair.
You can only control the rebound.
I’m gonna play.