My hairdresser is a horny guy. Tells me the first woman he ever did the snake ride with was a certified hooker, and he was only 15 at the time. Her husband clearly never told her about this thing called unlawful sex with a minor. He may have been her pimp, who knows. Turns out he—my hairdresser, not the hooker's pimp—once did the humpty hump in my bed when I was abroad. Or so he confessed while cutting my hair. You should've seen the look on my face. I said,
'Come again?!' He said, 'Sure did. Some people don't need to go to Spain to let their temperature rise, you know.' I looked at him, I stared, and then all of a sudden it clicked. 'You stole my wine ten years ago, didn't you?' He said, 'Sure did. Great wine, too. Faustino V. One hell of a bottle.' That son of a gun had talked our house nanny, another customer of his, into showing him my previous house, including my private stash of Spanish Rioja. Then ended up in my bed and, to cap it all, emptied my favorite bottle. Never cared to change the sheets either.
All those years I had been wondering about that bottle. Where the hell was it?
I knew Maria wasn't a fan of wine. She was a Baileys kinda
girl. Drank one bottle and then another one and another one. But not
wine. So did she steal it or what? Now I know my hairdresser
was the culprit and she was his accomplice.
Maria the house nanny and Mr Snip... They had made an appointment. Only this
time she was his hairdryer—one that didn't blow hot air.
Meanwhile he took advantage of my favorite stash and took another sip of
my Faustino V. It took him ten years to find the courage to
confess. I could tell his wife, you know (who, by the way is a colleague of
his), but I won't.
I think.
That son of a gun.
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