The New Rules for Blondes by Selena Coppock Read Free Book Online Page B

I run on Wednesday nights.
    And then I did something to the tiny, elfin keyboard that made the email send.
    “Nooooo!” I shouted as I flailed my body around the filthy hotel bedspread that was probably covered in dried semen and tears. “This can’t be happening! It just fucking sent , and I didn’t want it to! I hate your phone! What the fuuuuuuck!?” I wailed.
    Leah quickly opened the paper-thin accordion of a bathroom door, which gave the illusion of privacy without actually blocking the sounds of tinkling. “Let me see what you did,” she scolded and grabbed the devil phone from my shaking hands.
    “Huh. Yeah. It sent.” She put the phone down on a tiny bedside table.
    “But I didn’t even give him the information! I need to send him another message! I look like a psycho! Oh man, this is just like Jon Favreau’s character in Swingers when he keeps leaving the voice mails on his ex-girlfriend’s answering machine and they keep getting cut off because he’s rambling, so he has to keep leaving messages,” I lamented. “But I have to! I have to get him the information—otherwise I look crazy,” I decided.
    “You think that if you don’t give him the information, that is what will make you look crazy?” Leah tried to bring me back down to earth, but I wasn’t having it.
    “I just need your phone for one more message. Just one more, then I’m done, I promise!” I begged like a drug addict. 21
    “You’re only allowed one more!” Leah implored and handed me the devil phone.
    Whoops! That sent before I was ready. Anyway, so the show is on Wednesday nights at Luca Lounge 22 on Avenue B between 13th and 14th streets in the East Village. It’s standup and storytelling and always a good time. Come by some Wednesday and I’ll buy you a beer. —Selena
    OK.
    When I didn’t hear back from Constantine after twenty-four hours, I figured that he probably doesn’t check that email address very often so I should tweet him. He said himself, he’s trying to do more on Twitter. And if he’s willing to tweet and retweet with AshWantsToRock, he’d better be willing to throw down some 140-character love notes with me. I had already baked this cake of crazy, why not frost it?
    @ConstantineM Such a blast at MexiCali Live last night! Great concert, great time!
    And then I waited. For him to RT it or at least thank @SelenaCoppock. Or, even better, for Connie to organically tweet about the show and how he loved the blonde chick in the crowd.
    Alas, there was nothing. No mention of the show, no mention of meeting two hot comediennes outside the venue, no nothing. Just a fat Heisman in my face instead of his. How did this go so wrong!? This was a joke crush! It was a joke, and somehow I felt completely rejected and embarrassed nonetheless. I was supposed to eat him alive, not the opposite. This was pathetic. The only thing more pathetic and sad than a person who earnestly, genuinely loves a D-list “celebrity” and American Idol reject is a person who ironically, jokingly loves a D-list celebrity and somehow still ends up heartbroken.
    The heartbreak that day and in the weeks and months after was soothed by the knowledge that it never would have worked out with Constantine anyway. The rule—don’t date a guy who is as hair-obsessed as you are—exists for a reason. It simply won’t work. Sure, he has great hair and I have great hair, but when we eventually got serious enough to cohabit, where would we store our combined collection of hair products? There’s not a bathroom big enough in this world. My root boost spray will never be stored next to Constantine’s curl-separator serum, and that’s OK.

CHAPTER 5
    RULE: Have a Blonde Mentor
    H air-wise, kids are sitting on a gold mine and they don’t even know it. Or rather, a gold mine is sitting on their heads and they don’t know. Children often have phenomenal natural color and exquisite natural highlights, yet they can’t even begin to appreciate those gifts