Bubble, Bumble, Toil, and Trouble
How my stylist and random strangers formed a focus group to craft my dating profile. New color, new bio, new chaos.
Last time on Flings & Other Things: Dinner with my ex led to (almost) needing the Heimlich maneuver, overpriced seafood, and lies. So many lies about my dating life. The story doesn’t end there—read on to see what unfolds next.
X disappears with a cheerful wave, leaving me to confront the wreckage: Oyster shells. A giant check. My life.
Shock, more shock, and the oh-so-fun, “Am I a loser?” loop on repeat in my head as I trudge to the next stop of the afternoon—the salon. Bit by bit, a shaky plan brews in the chaos. Big picture: Win. The short-term specifics? Find a date. Have sex. The logistics? Still working on that.
I text D—my gay best friend, my oracle of all things sex. (Cliché? Absolutely. Accurate? No question about it.) While he lives his best life, I’ve been relying on his uncensored stories, my trusty vibrating companion. (⚠️ Seriously, don’t click the link in public ⚠️), and a diet of spicy novels. (My steamiest go-tos: If You Hate Me, Alpha: Taken, King of Corium.)
No response. Doesn’t he understand this is an emergency?
Gah. I guess I’m on my own for now.
I spot the local CVS and dash inside. My default reaction to stress is retail therapy. And yes, the irony that I’m basically living the stereotypes I write about isn’t lost on me, but here we are.
I grab a box of condoms. The biggest size. I’m not settling for less, and I’m out the door. No time to second guess myself, my roots are showing and need tending.
When I arrive at the salon, my usual stylist, C—a musician who dabbles in hair and makeup in his “spare” time—waves me over, telling me to hang out until he’s finished with his current client.
As I wait, I go back to the plan: The most obvious way to get a guy fast is via dating apps. There’s no other viable alternative. I can’t just snap my fingers and conjure up a date out of thin air. And while I’m wary, the idea is growing on me. Dating apps are efficient; everyone’s got a clear motivation: people looking for people. Sure, I’ve heard tons of horror stories, backed up by that Netflix gem, The Tinder Swindler, but I’m going for it. Forewarned is forearmed, right?
And it does sound like I need to arm myself. Will Mission: Manhunt require the stealth of a dagger? The flair of a crossbow? Or does it call for the brute force of a battering ram? (I have no clue where one even buys a battering ram, but it feels like I should find out.) The bigger question: Which app to pick?
I mentally review my options:
Hinge: Relationship-y. Hmmm. This one concerns me, though it seems to be the app of choice for friends looking for love. Am I ready for that? Maybe If it happens by accident, but a serious relationship right now? I’d be unhinged.
Tinder: Efficient, yes. But the black and red color scheme is… intense. I may need to work myself up to it.
Bumble: Sunny. Insects. Horizontal stripes. All things that don’t usually appeal. But the concept of me messaging first? At least I can pretend I’m in control. As long as I’m not actually bumbling my way through it and can channel my inner Blair Waldorf to claim my Queen Bee status in the dating world, I think I’ll be able to handle it.
*Dramatic push the download button moment.*
By the time Bumble’s on my device, C’s ready for me.
“So,” he says, running his fingers through the abomination attached to my skull. “How are we feeling today?”
“Well,” I start, desperate to unload, since D is still MIA. “I’m… dating.”
Low whistle. “Nice. We’ll make you look amazing. Using the apps? Which one?”
“Bumble,” I say confidently, as if I haven’t only just downloaded it. Yep, I’m a Bumble pro now. Totally.
“Let me see your profile.”
“It’s a work in progress.” I’m a work in progress—under construction, but solid potential.
“Oooh, a refresh profile? I love a good glow up opp!”
Okay, yes. Glow me up. All the way up. Glow me until I’m shining like the bat signal in the sky.
As he gets to work on my hair, I start scrolling through my phone for photos, trying to find something that doesn’t scream DMV. I sort through the most recent ones. And the ones from right before that. And the ones from before that. I pick a few possibilities and flash one at C. “Does this look like me?”
“Yes.”
“Like, present-day me?”
“Yes.”
“But my hair’s darker.”
“You could have lightened it.”
“I have fewer wrinkles.”
“Botox is your friend.”
We go through this cycle a few more times. Either I really do look fabulous, or he’s lying—after all, the man works for tips, so it’s not as if he’s going to tell me otherwise. (Plus, let’s not forget my current man-doubting state of mind.)
This back-and-forth continues until C’s had enough. He takes my phone and squints at it. Then turns and holds it up to the three other people at the salon. “Does this look like her?”
Now, we New Yorkers pride ourselves on our ‘don’t bother me’ attitude. But hint at wanting an opinion—even unintentionally—and you’ve got an instant focus group.
A blonde with foil wraps looks up from her Kindle. ‘Yep, that’s her.’
The other hairdresser, sweeping up clippings, glances up at the photo, then meets my eyes in the mirror. “Absolutely.” (But he also partakes of the wine I drop off during the holidays.)
An older woman who’s practically a fixture in the salon takes a little longer. “I agree.”
Unanimous yeses. Okay. That’s something.
C continues, “She’s making a dating profile. How old does she look here?”
Tin-foil lady goes, “Thirty-five!”
I think I love her. The others throw out similarly flattering numbers, and I decide maybe today is a good day.
C has now taken full creative control, tapping through my camera roll with the confidence of an art director. “We need variety, honey. Let’s give them the total package: brains, mystery, and a touch of glam.”
In moments, the entire salon is invested in the project—thumbs up, thumbs down, intense discussions on “good angles,” with everyone throwing in their own dating nightmares. When the frenzy ends, I have five photos that are surprisingly… usable.
“See? We’ll have you on a date tonight,” C promises.
Wait, what? Tonight? I wasn’t even planning to actually date yet—this was supposed to be prep work! “I’m on a red-eye to Lisbon tonight.” Time to pump the brakes. “I just wanted to get ahead of the game.”
“Why wait? Go on dates in Lisbon.” He hands my phone back.
Hmmm, should I be Carpe Dieming right now? It’s what my characters would do. “Don’t the guys need to be nearby, within range?”
“Travel mode.”
Travel wha???
C has me dive into Bumble’s settings, and before I know it, I’m knee-deep in credit card details, signing up for a month of premium features.
I’m officially ready. C has banished all traces of silver from my hair, and tamed it into a sleek, layered masterpiece with what must be an enchanted paddle brush, and sealed the deal with a frizz-fighting serum designed for humidity warfare. Bumble is convinced I’m in Lisbon, and at this point, so am I. Let’s do this.
I review my details one last time: name, height, and age (gasp!)
My bio? “Looking for adventure.”
What happens after? Catch the next episode of Flings & Other Things to see how one delayed flight and a bunch of unexpected matches lead to the kind of night that only happens in movies—or Lisbon.
I sure hope this serial moves to daily since the weekly wait is going to be too long! (I've read all your books ... hoping a handcuffed sports star is on your dating experience list!!)