four days is not "always" part one

In relationships, persistant women are called "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence." Persistant men are called "stalkers."
At first glance, this may seem one of the few instances when men end up with the shorter end of the stick when it comes to double standards. And yet, a stalker at least has the privilege of flying his freak flag, which in many ways makes him easy to dismiss as simply "crazy," rather than catagorizing him as someone who is otherwise sane and, well, quite frankly, wants too much for herself, as we often do with women.

It is true that women make some of the most formidable stalkers, oftentimes adding a feminine finesse that is otherwise lacking. And it is also true that otherwise sane men are sometimes "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence"--even by the second date. Take Bird's story.

Bird is a normal girl living in Las Vegas. She is 22, a native of Tallahassee, and a talented colorist who has a knack for doing exactly what her clients ask her to do, unless she thinks they are wrong. And in this case, she simply does something better.

I have a standing appointment for highlights, a trim and a blow out with her every five weeks. I don't need a gossip magazine while she works--J.Lo, LiLo, or JoJo has nothing on her. Bird's escapades across the slippery landscape of Sin City are second to no one's and yet somehow defiantly typical of the women who live here.

Friday's story was especially entertaining since Ullah, Bird's roommate, was sitting nearby waiting to have a Brazilian done. It went something like this:

Bird met Robert at Blue Martini on the previous Sunday night. She was out with Ullah and a few other single friends. Any relationship-minded girl in Vegas knows that Blue Martini is one of a handful of places where at least 50% of the males will NOT be boarding a plane back to Sacramento or Buffalo, broke and hungover, on Monday morning. Women in big cities all over the country can whine about the dismal prospects of any given night out, with many of the hazards unique to the particular location--entitled egos on Wall Street, early morning football practice in Dallas, stringent religious rules in Salt Lake--but Vegas women, more so than women in any other city, can complain about the fact that their city's tourism department has made it the official slogan that what happens or WHO HAPPENS here should stay here. Ouch.

So Bird and the girls knew they had a 50/50 shot at finding local boys. Of those, at least half would be at least semi-employed--otherwise the $20 drinks would be prohibitive. Not bad odds.

Within moments, Bird saw Robert across the way.
"I nudged Ullah immediately and said 'There's my man.' He was freaking beautiful."
"He was so NOT beautiful, Bird," quipped Ullah. "You liked his freaking shirt."
"I did not like his freaking shirt. I didn't even notice his freaking shirt."
Ullah raised her eyebrow. "Uh huh." She then turned to me in the mirror and said, "What. Ev. Er. She liked his freaking shirt." Ullah is from Jersey, which means she has that innate talent to make you believe that whatever she is saying is the obvious truth, morons.
"OK. So I liked his shirt. It was Hardy. Even if his face wasn't that great."

(Hardy shirts, on the west coast, possess the qualifying signals of a male's ability to provide for a woman and her offspring or at least to buy her a membership at Anthem country club, as say, a Benz or Rolex on the east coast. The shirts are actually the locus of a growing schism between west coasters--you are other all for them or they make you kind of nauseous in the same kind of way eating too much cake or cotton candy does. Trust me, Issue 8 has nothing on this.)

Anway, Bird, despite Ullah's obvious indifference, walked right up to Robert and introduced herself.