I used to get around a little.  One time here, another there.  Always the dream of what the next guy could do, how he could fulfill my desires.

No, not that way!  I was…a hair slut.  My friend, Jen, was a jean whore.  She’d constantly covet the jeans I wore, or the jeans on that girl over there, the jeans from some old boyfriend, the jeans that actress wore in that movie where she went punting in Cambridge.  Oh, wait, that was me in the boat…Anyway, she wanted jeans.  I just wanted great hair.

Don’t we all, you’re thinking.  I guess.  Friends had committed relationships with Frank at Tete a Tete or Marlena at John DeLegomigoogie.  I just had a vision.  On the subway I’d eye someone’s luscious locks and think, now that’s what I’m looking for.  When you are blessed with fine hair like mine (and I don’t mean, girl, you are SO fine) it takes a steady hand and knowledge that one razor cut and you’re Mrs. Brady or topped with a nine month old’s wisps.

So I chased the – usually – boys.  Yes, there was Joan but she burned out after a while.  There was always the initial rush, the first time luck, blunt cut, great style, shine.  And then maybe the third or fifth time it was only so-so, but like a woman who keeps trying for love when it just isn’t there, Id persist.  Maybe he had a bad day, I’d think.  Everyone’s allowed an off afternoon.  Or two.  But not three.  So I’d move on.  Oh, James and your funky place in Chelsea.  And Daniel the ultra-posh and ultra-expensive guy in London – yes, the extra were great.  Like breakfast the next morning.  And boy could you cook – tea sandwiches and pedicures and head massages.  But that guy near Harvard Square – can’t even remember your name but I found you through a woman in my first baby group who had fab hair.  Of course, you loved her and only tolerated me and my hair proved it.  I was second fiddle to her and yet that hair washer was worth it – back rub and head massage with deep conditioner.

There were lousy ones, of course.  The one who chopped my hair from mid-back to chin and gave my baby fringe without asking – the day before I flew to Prague to try and remind my boyfriend how fun and confident I was.  Cue NY Yankees cap – the only thing I could find in London…but worth it even to this devout Red Sox fan.  There was the bad highlighter who kept saying “It’ll just brighten you up.”  There was the woman WHO FORGOT ABOUT MY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STYLING.  It’s like falling asleep during sex – it’s just wrong (not that I’d know! Really!).

And now, you ask?

Ohmygoshohmygosh.  I think – think – I’ve met him.

“Who?” my husband asks when he does a double-take yesterday.

“My hair husband.”

Yes, folks, it all goes well, this is it.  I’m ready to commit.  And I think he is, too.  We been together for over a year, and just yesterday, in the heat wave which is friend to no hair, he hugged me hello, kissed me after admiring his work, and then we both went home to our real husbands.