Here’s what wrong with being friends with Big Chris: He will always be able to drink more than you. A few weeks ago, Chris took me to Beauty Bar, a hipster hangout in my neighborhood that’s decked out to look like an old school beauty parlor. I’d been to the New York version in college, but was thrilled to find a Beauty Bar mere steps from home.
Yesterday, Zoe announced that she’d walked by Beauty Bar, found it fabulous and HAD to go immediately. You don’t have to ask me twice. Plus, I’m always looking for excuses to wear my new clothes from New York. Chris agreed to come over at 7:30, provided we could go somewhere for burritos first. That, in fact, is Chris’ permanent stipulation when coming over; burritos.
Living by the adage, “Dress Like You Mean It”, Zoe and I did just that, which made it all the more painful when Chris walked in and said, “What the fuck are you wearing?” I don’t know if he was referring to Zoe’s yellow stilettos or my huge Moroccan belt, but I thought we looked tremendously fashion forward.
After Taqueria Cancun, we saddled up to the bar and ordered drinks. One of the great things about the Beauty Bar is that everyone that works there looks crazy hardcore, with millions of tattoos and insane hair and happenin’ clothes, which makes the whole place seem cooler, and then they turn out to be the loveliest people. The bartender helping us weighed 12 pounds and had a sailor’s hat on, his gold tooth glistening as he invented drinks for us to sample. The DJ, whom we refer to as The Messiah because he looks just like Jesus spinning records, played a medley of Hall and Oats which sent me into a state of bliss.
“Private eyes” (clap) “are watching you… (clap, clap.)
It was pretty mellow for awhile, allowing us time to drink and chat and drink. By 10, the place started to fill and by the time Kate got there, Beauty Bar was packed. Kate had just returned from an apparently fabulous date and was swooning all over the bar, telling us how incredible her new guy is. Then she met the Marine.
Now, who doesn’t like Marines? They’re fabulous. I was in the Philly airport once and a Marine insisted on carrying my suitcase for me. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.” He looked me straight in the eye and said, “It’d be an honor, ma’am.”
Good Bless America. Love those Marines. But Kate managed to find herself the stupidest, rudest, most obnoxious Marine on earth. Admittedly hot, this guy had asshole written all over him. I was distracted however, by the 7 foot tall Ethiopian gentleman who kept rubbing my back as asking if my boyfriend (I believe he was referring to Chris) appreciated me. I have found myself in many situations in which I’ve needed Big Chris to pretend to be my boyfriend. (I think we all remember Priest Shoes.) Each and every time, he’s slipped away to a corner, to laugh hysterically while watching me squirm. Last night was no different. I was left twisting in the wind as Kate and Zoe became noticeably frightened and Chris giggled from miles away. The Ethiopian eventually departed and Chris returned, making several Roots references before buying another round.
We enjoyed the Beauty Bar for a good four hours. As I finally crawled in to bed early this morning, I knew that upon waking up, I would experience extreme pain.
I was right. I actually considered pulling over on the side of the freeway to vomit and sleep. Alas, I rallied my classiness and made it to work, where I am currently enjoying an entire pot of coffee and worrying that Zoe might walk by Skylark today and pull out the yellow stilettos…