by Laurelin
People always think that as a bartender I must be always surrounded by men. Flirting with the bartender is just what people do, it’s true. I’m going to be honest though — besides the occasional coworker, in my years behind the bar I have never once met and wound up hooking up with or dating a guy I’ve met while working. I am friendly, but I am not one of those girls who bats her eyelashes for tips. I would rather impress you with my knowledge of beer selection than with my boobs (although I do have a pretty perky rack).
That being said, let’s move on to something a little on the girly side: hair. I have spent the majority of my life as a faux ginger. My hair is naturally mousy brown, and in high school (without my parents permission of course) I started dying it auburn. With the exception of a few years of rebellion with crazy haircuts and experimenting with pinks, blues, and purples, I have always had long, red hair. I woke up one morning about a month ago with a new idea in my head. Blonde. I wonder…Not an hour later I found myself in a salon chair covered in foils, and an hour after that, I was a different person. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe it. Could I touch it? Is this me?
I didn’t think anyone would care, but as the days went by I started to notice a serious difference in the way men talked to me. People held doors, bought me drinks, smiled more. Is this for real? Maybe it was in the way I held myself; I had just received two promotions at both my jobs and I admit to having a bit more pep in my step as of late. Either way, people always say blondes have more fun, and I’m starting to think they weren’t kidding. My bar shifts end in multiple phone numbers written on napkins and bar receipts. Guys hang around a little past closing and ask what I’m doing after work, I need to shove them out the door and try not to laugh. People whistle in the streets and I’m wondering, was I invisible as a red head? Seriously?
The other night at a charity event I met this guy who on paper, seemed perfect. We chatted, I wasn’t exactly interested but I wasn’t not interested. He wound up having too much to drink and in ordering us a round of beers he made a snide comment, purposely insulting the bartender. I was horrified, but I thanked him for the chat and went to find my friends. I could feel his eyes on me for the rest of the night, and I wished I had anywhere else to be.
One week later, I’d just started a shift at work. Before I can even take off my coat, I look up and there he is, the guy from the charity event. My cheeks burn and I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.
“Do you remember me?” he asks.
“Yes…” I say.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says. “I can’t believe I didn’t get your number. Please, go out with me.” I look around, wondering if anyone else is hearing this. The coat I have taken only halfway off suddenly feels like a million pounds of wool, and I start sweating.
“Um, I’m flattered, but I’m kind of seeing someone…” I manage to stammer.
“I don’t care,” he says. “One coffee date.” Whelp, that’s it for me. The scent of desperation on anyone makes bile rise in my throat but at the same time I feel so bad for this guy that I can barely stand it.
“You should go,” I say. He doesn’t go, he stares at me, and as the other bartender walks up I hold my hand up in a half wave, and he finally gets it. He leaves, and I start my shift shaking.
Fucking blonde hair, seriously. I’m in trouble.
[..]
