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The Badder the Better

The Badder the Better

I hope they have chocolate in hell. Why? Because that’s where I’m headed. It’s not my fault of course, and I blame Esquire magazine for the whole mess.

You see, a few Fridays ago, which just happened to be Good Friday, I did what I do every Friday and flew into my favorite salon for a blowout. (Yes, I get my hair “done” once a week just like your grandma did. No, I cannot wield a round brush and a blow dryer without ultimately bearing a striking resemblance to a thatched hut. And yes, the twenty-five big ones it costs me is nothing in comparison to the therapy bills I’d rack up without my weekly appointment with Ashley.)

I mention that it was Good Friday because, out of deference to that holy day, I typically try to think only pure, pleasant thoughts about things like pastels, white rabbits, and Easter eggs. This isn’t easy, since I like to daydream about finding Johnny Depp at my front door, (Oooh, look what the bunny brought!), but I try.

Okay, so I blow into the salon from my Jazzersize class and collapse onto the sofa. I’m sweaty, spent, and in no mood for the extra work demanded by the women’s magazines before me. Better Homes & Gardens wants to help make my meat and potatoes “pop!” (Fine. They can start by cooking it for me.) Vogue has “630+ pages of fabulous fashions!” (Which I’d look at if I could lift it.) And Oprah believes “the time is now!” for me to live my best life. (How does she know I’m not?) The thought of digesting all this drivel exhausts me. And I then I see it. Or to be specific, him. Robert Downey, Jr. on the cover of Esquire magazine.

Have I ever told you how much I love Robert Downey, Jr.?

Like lots of women, I have a secret place in my heart for a hot bad boy. Sure, my brain says the clean cut Brooks Brother in the shiny Beemer is the way to go. But my weak knees want the scruffy, ripped hunk on the Hog. The one who looks like he’s been around the block a time or two. I’m not going to explore the psychological underpinnings of this covert preference. First of all I’m not that bright, and second of all it’s not that complex. If given a choice between Josh Hartnett (cute as he is) and Leonardo DiCaprio, I firmly believe most women would leave with Leo.

I, on the other hand, would depart with Mr. Downey.

To me, he’s the baddest of the bunch. Handsome, hot, and always in a whole lot of trouble, he was the man who made Ally McBeal worth watching. And I did. Up until he was busted for something, hauled off to the clink, and all David E. Kelley could think of was to replace him with a note pinned to a snowman.

(On behalf of the millions of women who put up with Ally’s absurdly short suit skirts each week for a few minutes with bad boy Bobby, all I can say is, gee, thanks, Dave.)

I flip frantically to the article, bad girl thoughts kicking those snowy white bunnies in the butt, and there he is. Badder and better than ever. I’m not three words into the story when I’m told to go back to have my hair washed. How lovely; an opportunity to recline with Roberto.  

Clutching my Esquire, I flop back in the sink and say “Jamie, who’s your favorite bad boy?” “Tommy Lee,” she replies. Instantly. Without hesitation. Like she knew I was going to ask. I love that the world’s best shampoo girl has bad boys on the brain. In seconds we’re carrying on like a couple of high schoolers. “He’s so hot.” “That hair.” “Those eyes.” “His shoulders.” We’re giggling and making so much noise the whole salon wants to know what we’re talking about. “Bad boys,” I announce, popping up out of the sink and spraying shampoo and warm water everywhere. “Who’s your favorite bad boy?”

Mark Wahlberg. Viggo Mortensen. Taylor Kitsch. Leonardo DiCaprio. Jamie Foxx. Charlie Sheen. Adrian Grenier. Taye Diggs. John Sena. The names are flying fast and furious. I rip out my notepad and start scribbling. And then it dawns on me: I’ve written Colin Farrell’s name at least fifteen times.

“Ladies! Ladies!” I yell over the near riot that’s erupted. “Colin Farrell? He looks like he needs a bath.” “And don’t you wish you could run the water for him,” cracks my pal Ashley.

It couldn’t have been more fun if there were margaritas involved. I doubt they’ll have those in hell, but I’m holding out hope for something sweet. You know, like a Hershey bar. And a spot next to my boy Bobby.

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