I was dozing off and admiring the view when the waitress walked over, who was both very cute and spoke perfect English. After 7 months of barely understanding what’s said around me, a girl’s ability to speak my native tongue has become a turn on.

I had a cappuccino and paid and left. Really, nothing interesting happened, so there’s no need to dwell on it. I knew I should have asked her out — there’d been lingering eye contact, a couple small laughs and, unusually for me, I didn’t break wind once — but I was tired, sober, and had a plan.

Which brings us to The Barberess of Portsmouth.

I didn’t name her that, a buddy did upon hearing this rollercoaster of a story. Frankly, ‘barberess’ is a bit too grand of a title for a 25-year old SuperCuts employee, but the name stuck, so what can you do.

This was back in 2007. I was working an internship in college & living outside Portsmouth, New Hampshire, which means I was near negative two points of interest for a kid my age. I was 20-years old in the middle of nowhere, with no friends for 100 miles in any direction. I watched a lot of Netflix without any chilling.

So going to a hair cuttery (definitely a word) was a big curveball in my routine. And lo and behold, after waiting in an uncomfortable chair for fifteen minutes while reading a two-year old Sports Illustrated, my name was eventually called by the only drop-dead gorgeous stylist in the state.

I was more than a little excited – you know that tarp they wrap around your neck to keep your hair off you? That goofy piece of plastic was key to hiding my half-pitched tent.

And much like my coffee server in Valparaiso, everything went well. We held eye contact a bit longer than necessary, had a few mutual laughs, and while I did lightly pass gas twice, neither actually smelled, which is the same as not farting at all.

Once again, I knew I should say something, but I didn’t. She was wearing a ring on that finger, and even though it didn’t look like a proper wedding band, my yellow side used it as an excuse to say nothing. I tipped too much and left in shame.

This bugged me for days. As much as I was loving the early seasons of Lost, you can only watch so much TV on your computer alone without feeling like you’re becoming this guy from South Park. Something needed to be done.

It was round about a week later when the loneliness reached critical mass. I don’t know what got into me – probably tequila – but I decided to swing for the fences.

I drove to the SuperCuts again and, sure enough, the Barberess was there. My heart was shaking harder than an overly aggressive vibrator as I opened the door, marched up to the counter, and asked to speak to… whatever her name was.

She walked over and I, with about as much smoothness as McLovin at the liquor store, asked, “Uhhhhdoyouwanttogooutsometime?”