Friday, February 01, 2008

ABRAXAS.

[I realize that I am going to regret, much later, using all my Santana references now.]

You know where you don’t want to be waiting for crucial baseball news?

In a hair salon.

While I realize that this may seem obvious, it wasn’t until I was sitting in my neighborhood salon, smeared with haircolor and my hair do more of a hair don’t, and frantically trying to get signal on my PDA, that I realized that this was THE WORST POSSIBLE PLACE to be waiting for the final countdown.

[cue music]

Because nobody walking into Zoe’s Beauty Supply was going to 1) know anything or 2) care about my issue. Wait, I take that back: Anna, the woman who does my hair, cared deeply about the results (although she freely admitted she wasn’t as insane as I was). She, however, had customers. And cousins. And more crucial gossip than how much the Wilpons were eventually going to fork over to Johan Santana.

TBF was at the gym.
Coop was out at dinner, and asking me for updates.
Will was - well, somewhere, and asking me for updates

I am sitting in Greenpoint with hair color on my head and trying to figure out WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH THE SANTANA TRADE.

I lose signal, and decide to sneak to the front of the shop. The only problem with that, of course, is that the front of the shop is a boutique and has AN INCREDIBLY LARGE PLATE GLASS WINDOW facing Greenpoint Avenue.

And I am standing there looking like Phyllis Diller on a bad hair day.

One of the drunks from the bar next door comes staggering up the street and peers into the window. When he sees me, he does a double take.

It’s at about this point that I decide enough is enough and skulk back to the salon. I have enough signal to try one more time.

DONE DEAL.

Thank god. I sink back into the chair, and start texting people with details.

“Uh, Caryn? Can someone rinse you now?”

Um, yeah.