George always frowned. If he didn’t, you never met the real George. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh before. Even when he was doing some of the most stress-free things in life – his lips would flop and find its way into the shape of an umbrella.

I took him out to a movie once. We watched a comedy. I never heard him laugh even once during the whole movie. Yes, life was very depressing. And I thought he was too.

George is always serious about everything he does. And I’m proud of him, but I just wished he would crack into a real smile once in a while. I was his best friend. But he just doesn’t. I guess I’ll never win.

George likes to be technical. He likes to be specific and he likes to be very descriptive. I believe he knows every English word known to man – and I think he’s created some of his own. He has this desire to explain every feeling out there. But I believe there are some feelings in life you can’t describe.

George doesn’t have a way with words. He is the worst person to be around if you’re ever fishing for compliments. Don’t get me wrong. He’s nice, and probably the most genuine person I’ve ever met, but he’s blunt. He won’t be afraid to tell you off. That’s what I love about him the most; he’s down to earth.

Anyway, he has a girlfriend now and I’m glad he’s making progress.



Well. I saw him again last night. We’re not best friends anymore. I guess its Deborah’s fault. She has trust issues. So do I.

I was getting ready for my date with George, when suddenly the doorbell rings—its George!

“I’m not ready,” I frowned, and proceeded to close the door.

“Wait! Let me help you. I’m a professional after all,” he said sticking his foot into the doorway.

I thought for a minute, about what I was getting myself into. “Fine,” I finally said, dropping my hair to my shoulders. “The ponytail’s too boring for you isn’t it?”

“Yes."

“Let’s be quick. My Dad’s sleeping on the living room couch--"

"Hi, Carlton!" he shouted.

That goddamn as$hole.



Back in my room, I sat down on the chair in front of my bedroom mirror.

“Okay George. Work your magic," I said and closed my eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t want to open them?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said impatiently. “We’ve only got an hour before the movie starts. Work fast!” I demanded. "I don't want to miss another movie because of you."

“Okay, if you say so,” he replied, unconvinced.

He took out his comb and lightly brushed my hair. Did I mention he works in his family’s hair salon?

I started to feel light-headed.

“Hey, George. What are you doing?” I asked curiously, as I popped my left eye open.

In the mirror… horror was what I saw.

“Honey?” I heard my dad calling from the living room. “Is that you?”

“Yes Dad?” I yelled back.

There was a long silence. “Are you still home?” he asked.

“Yes--”

“Was that you screaming?” he asked.

“No, it was George!” I mumbled under my breath.

“No it was not,” George whispered hastily into my ears, pulling my hair along with his fury.

Someone lightly tapped on my bedroom door. “I hope everything’s okay...” Dad said, worried.

“Everything’s fine, Dad," I called back, and then he left.

When we were alone again, I swore. “What the f*** George? I look like that girl from Wendy’s,” I pleaded. “Why’d you cut off my hair!?”

“It was just a little trim,” he said. “Besides, I think you look great. You’re gonna stand out—”

"I don't look great. I look like a fast food icon..." I picked up twelve inches of my hair off the ground. I loved my long hair.

“I think you need a new look,” he continued, picking out strands of hair from his brush.

“Why?”

“Since you’re dating me now, of course.” He sounded so sure of himself.

I sighed. “Our date hasn’t even started, and I’m hardly impressed," I whispered to myself.



He looked at me again in the mirror as he finished tying up the braids. As he flung one braid from side to the next, he cleared his throat, and mumbled; “Yeah… I don’t think the Wendy’s look is working out too well.”

"That's what I tried to tell you." He’s one of the worst barbers out there.



He pulled out the braids, and let my hair dance loosely around my shoulders. He kissed me on my forehead, and lightly patted me on the top of my head.

“You feel just like Deborah,” he whispered, as he grabbed my sweater on his way out the door.

Deborah is his dog. He just got her last week, and he hasn’t shut up about her since.

“Did you just call me a dog?” I said in disbelief.

“No,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But you feel just like one.”

“Great,” I mumbled. “I feel just like a dog.”