Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

My Date With A Delivery Guy, Dyeing My Hair, And Strand

Normally, on a Friday after work, I don’t put off going out to a pub until after nine o’clock. Normally, I prefer to run home, eat something quick, or perhaps dine out, and then dive in as quickly, spending as much time as possible striving for a late and somewhat painful awakening on Saturday.

Today, I do not have that luxury. I have to be home until sometime after eight o’clock, because I had problems with ordering in vietnamese food last night. It’s true. Friday called me after work to see if I wanted to meet her at our favourite sushi joint this evening, and when I explained to her why I had to turn her down, she said that if this was just some story being related to her about a past event, she wouldn’t believe it. This is because my reason for missing out on a sushi dinner which I really want to be at is really stupid.

Last night, I ordered in vietnamese food, because I just couldn’t go without this certain restaurant’s barbeque pork fresh rolls another night. They are divine. I had taken cash out earlier yesterday just for this occasion. After just over half an hour, my telephone rang, and I let the delivery guy into the building. I relate that part, because each little event leading up to the moment where I start dipping the barbeque fresh rolls into the sweet peanut sauce is foreplay. He knocks on my door. I open it a crack to make sure it’s who it’s supposed to be (you never know when you’ll become the victim of some horrible crime), and the smell of my dinner breezes in, teasing my olfactory system with its damp heat. No, really, this is exactly what happened.

I then opened my door the rest of the way and went to find my wallet. I found my wallet. I opened it to pull out the twenty dollar bill that I knew was in it. It wasn’t. Just a second, I said, it must be in my other pants. I then went through two pairs of pants. Nothing. What the bloody hell?! How could the Universe be so freaking unreasonable after the blessed teasing of those soft, soft fresh rolls hanging there from the delivery guy’s fingers in that nearly see-through bag?!

He seemed to be watching my frantic hunting with amusement and finally said, Iss okey. You haff now, I come bag tuhmowuh. Who is that nice? Delivery Guy is that nice. I nearly wanted to hug him. He handed me my food and said that he would be back at the same time tomorrow, meaning today, to get the money. Do I love him? I think I might.

So, I explained all of this to Friday, that I had a date with Delivery Guy around eight o’clock, and she seemed to be understanding about my inability to meet her for sushi. I will make do with the excellent pad thai that came with my fresh rolls.

I do hope Delivery Guy shows up soon, though, because beer, sweet beer, is only five minutes from this apartment, and as much as I am looking forward to our brief date, the lure of a hopsy beverage is awfully enticing.


While I am sitting here waiting for the delivery guy to show, I will construct a short list of reasons why I should pay someone else to dye my hair, except that I’m way too cheap that way and would never do it:

1. I own what I think of as hair-dyeing contacts. I always wear glasses, except for when I dye my hair. I have this really old pair of contacts that I put in when I do it so I can see where the hell I am squirting the dye. It can be exponentially more difficult without them, because I have only about five inches of clear vision unaided. Because I only wear the contacts once a month, I ended up fumbling while attempting to get them into my eyes, and they got stuck to the sink, the mirror, my cheeks, my eyelid, the tap, and the contact solution bottle. Now I’ve got the rosy eyes of a pothead. Lovely.

2. While trying to get the dye into my hair, I squirted the mirror, my shoulders, the inside of my left ear, the sink, the toilet, the floor, my feet, and my left boob. I now have an orange splotch above my left nipple. Maybe I’ll wear a low-cut shirt tonight so people can stare and comment on my interesting birthmark.

3. I managed to stain the shower curtain and the wall behind the showerhead. Hair dye is obviously more obstinate than I am, because I can’t get it off and I’m contemplating using the leftover dye to create more random spots to make it look intentional.


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