I met the most artificial blond the world has ever seen. She wasn't particularly pretty or anything, but I'm not the most handsome guy in town, so I thought it was okay.
I didn't know whether to lie or to talk about my real life, since I would be lying either way. It's hard to tell the truth when your life is not real; neither was her hair, so I talked about my apartment in Cancun, my current ex-girlfriends, some of my investments in wall street, and my fancy car. She just talked about her hair.
Life on the internet is quite simple. That's all the life I have; that which some call a "second life" is the only life I have. Now, for the first time, I was talking face to face to an actual woman. The chat didn't last long, not as long as it would have lasted in a chat room, anyway; but I got her number.
Uncertainty sometimes gives life meaning, though it sure feels like shit. From the moment she gave me her number, I started wondering about what would happen if she found out about my real empty life. It's not that I couldn't explain it all or anything, but it would be an awkward moment for both. She did talk about her haircut, but she didn't talk about her blondness. Maybe, when the time came, we would be calling it even, as we both were telling lies on our first date.
Casual sex is dangerous, I've been told, so I started thinking about something more serious. I really didn't care about her hair, all I wanted was someone who cared about my feelings. I knew that explaining my lies would be kind of hard, but when she understood that I did it because of a truthful and tender sentiment of love, she might even stop dying her hair. The odds were quite uncertain, but the juice was worth the squeeze.
All in all, I called her. She had given me a wrong number.