Vantage From Steven's Chair

I've been loyal to Steven for two years now.

I never let anyone else cut or color my hair - unless I do it myself - and the times I have strayed have gone horribly awry. Serves me right. Steven, with his dark blonde hair that doesn't stop until the small of his back, is perfect. When he's blow drying my wet locks to reveal the full genius of his color and cut abilities, the other women in the salon compliment me.

"Your hair cut is so cute." And, "I love the color," they say.

I smile proudly at Steven, who barely notices their compliments on his work directed at me. I have nothing to do with what he does. He tells me I look better with cool rather than warm blonde hair, I believe him. He tells me I need layers, I let him cut layers. He told me I should "let it go," and I did. Maybe too much. The first thing he said to me tonight was, "Look at your long hair, you hippie!" I hadn't seen him since February.

When we first met my hair was short. Now it's so long I can put it into a ponytail. His hair has remained the same, though I think his beard is graying more.

Tonight he told me he hasn't gone anywhere on a vacation in seven years. I asked him where he wants to go.

"I've been looking for a nudist colony," he said. "But the one I looked at kept saying how family friendly it is."

"Hmm. Naked families don't sound like much fun," I told him. "What type of nudist colony are you looking for?"

"The kind with young, athletic gay men," he said.

We agreed that sounded like a pretty fun nudist colony.