I dated in high school. A lot. Ok, not a lot but I went on dates with the same person several times. I was kind of a chunky kid my freshman year (albeit smaller than I am now *she shakes fist*) and wasn’t a good dating weight until my sophomore year. To become acclimated to the craptastic dating scene in my home town I first attended a few make out sessions in the back of my friend’s mom’s giant yellow caddy. My chunky freshman self landed a boyfriend (yes, same as the prom date) and we dated for over a year. As soon as I was gainfully employed by Whataburger in the summer of 1992, the weight magically dropped off. It’s amazing what you won’t eat when you smell like a grease pit. This magic weight loss, paired with my drivers license and the ability to fit in a size 5 pair of Rocky Mountain crotch hugging jeans made for the perfect break up and freak out environment.
I broke up with fart boy and commenced operation FLIRT. Honestly, I didn’t know how to flirt. This consisted of hanging around the certain tables in the commons before school, pretending to laugh and flip my sunin damaged hair, or raising one of my giant unplucked eyebrows in a sophisticated “you want me” stare. None of this really worked. I did have my eye on one boy in paticular. He had a mullet.
At the time, mind you, we didn’t call it a mullet. It was just considered “long hair”. He was a kicker. He wore boots and brushpoppers, and ran in the same circles as fart boy. I didn’t know any better. He had cast a glance my way once or twice, and in my terms that meant he was madly in love with me. This boy, we’ll call Mullet. Mullet was semi popular. Not incredibly good looking, but he had been in the dating scene and had been in the accompany of other girlfriends. This meant Mullet was a catch. I flirted and raised my caterpillars at him just enough to get an invite to his place after school.
What happens to one when one accepts an invitation to one’s house after school? Make out. Well, that was what was on my mind at the time. I got to Mullet’s house. It was a small rented house in the old part of town. I pulled up in my awesome Honda Civic. He ever so slyly leaned his head in my rolled-down window to say hi. I really thought he was going to kiss me. Instead he just sat there with his cheshire cat grin.
“Alright!” he said in his kicker mullet voice. ” you can drive a stick?”
“Um, no,” I said sarcastically, thinking he was a dumbass. “It’s automatic. The shifter is just on the console.” What an idiot. It’s amazing the conversations you remember.
I parked my car, he walked up to his front door and I followed. We went to straight to his room. I really don’t remember what we talked about. We weren’t making out like I had planned. I remember he had a twin bed on the floor, a small chest of drawers, and his house was kind of dumpy. I thought he must have been poor. I didn’t care, I was poor. I was on a mission and we were gonna make out. We were well on our way. I brushed my teeth and everything.
I was talking to him all coy-like. Being ever so charismatic as I am… I leaned up against his bedroom wall, with my hands behind my back. This put me in the defenseless position that gave him all-signs-go. He leaned over to me. He was close. He leaned near me with his hand about a foot above my head, against the wall. We were close talking. In my book, this was first base.
He moved my hair back, moved my fuzzy bangs out of my eyes, started talking slow. My mouth started getting dry. I knew he was coming in for the kill. He started checking me out, looking me out up and down. He touched my shirt.
“Oh, you have a hair,” Mullet says. He motions to sweep the hair off my shirt. I thought he was going to touch my boob, but I’m too busy looking into his mullet eyes with my giant eyebrows begging to be kissed.
The hair didn’t move. He picked up the hair with his forefinger and thumb. Instead of tossing it into the air, and making a wish… It plucked. The plucking hair plucked. A piece of my neck skin jerked forward about 3 inches as Mullet tugged at it. I grabbed my neck out of instinct and turned bright red out of horror. I wanted to punch him in the face.
“Oh my God! That was attached to your NECK!” shreeked Mullet. Mind you, this hair was a good 5-6 inches long as I can (to this day) remember where the growth spot started and the hair landed on my shirt.
“Whatever,” I said. I tried to pull it off as if I had no idea what he was talking about. I started to sweat. I had to get out of there fast.
I completely blocked out what happened after that. I remember his mom came home, and we went out side. We never made out. Who the hell is going to make out with neckhair girl anyway. I wouldn’t be able to respect him. I left. I was never invited to his house again.
Years later, I was talking to one of my co-workers, telling her this story. She was dying laughing. We both thought it was hilarious. She asked where the neck hair was, I showed her. I told her it was so weird because it was like a hair on your head, not a whisker or anything. As we were laughing, she leaned in close. She plucked me.
I had another freaking neck hair about the length of a football field. I have to keep this sucker in check. If you ever meet me, please –don’t pluck with me. It’s not funny.