The Coiff-OffSandy Steinman
At Rumplemeyers, purchasing caramels, a tiny man, no taller than Pamela, my nine year old, tapped my shoulder.
"Ahem. Madame, I am Mario LaRusso. His heavily accented voice was melodic. "Your coiffure is intriguing," he whipped out a card. "I'm a hairdresser."
After small bits of chaff he suggested we stop for tea.
We sat at a Schrafft's booth. He leaned across, playfully tousling my hair, and whispered, "shall we have an affair?"
His shiny leather boots had three inch heels.
"You might pick on someone your size," I sniffed.
He glared at me. "I'm almost five feet."
"A pee wee."
"Fortunately, we're the same size seated." Winking, he said something in Italian.
I laughed, pretending to understand.
"A pot of of Earl Gray, please," I told the waiter.
"In the old country, short men are sought after; their vilirity is legendary. If the women are unfortunate enough to be caught, the villagers stone them."
I sipped tea, offered caramels.
"Tomorrow I sail to Paris. Why not come along?"
I was intrigued. Could I miss sewing circle? Find a nursemaid for Pamela? Would Nigel swallow my yarn that cousin Jane invited me to her spa?
"Meet me here tomorrow at six," he caressed my hair.
The next day, I arrived exhilarated, having hired a nursemaid and duped Nigel.
I sat alone until closing. Mario never showed up.
At home I found a note under the door.
"From Mario," it read. The rest was in Italian.
I don't understand Italian. I tore it up.
Copyright ©2000 Sandy Steinman. All Rights Reserved.
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