Where the girls are

A certain breed of girls exist in the mother city. These girls are the things of legend. If you’re not one, you either want to be one or you hate them. A fair amount of dedication goes into the manufacturing and maintenance of being just such a blonde prodigy, it takes time and money, lots of it, to become and remain such a flaxen-haired, paragon of perfection. It requires a level of commitment comparable only to learning Hebrew or paying off a credit card.

Inevitably, these platinum princesses are a point of discussion, where they go, who with, what they eat or don’t eat, how much they spend of what, and all kinds of other dirt. At times, when your life becomes a mess of Aldo’s, Vida paper cups and Argentinian men, the gossip becomes the most reliable source of information about the night before, your BFF, yourself, and even some guy who thinks he is dating you? go figure.

One thing us Cape Town blondes know about is partying and hair colour, we are the vodka in a vodka martini afterall… Many mornings spent at the demi god that is Marius (Our glorious stylist) have given me  the quantitative capability to process and store what may seem like useless information at the time, which might turn out to be well utilised ammunition when the opportunity presents itself.

Ah however, we might seem like fearless amazons on Swarovski heels, but we suffer natural predators, we like to call them FH’s – fucking hobbits. Now a fucking Hobbit, if you find yourself in proper company, simply a Hobbit, refers to short brunettes that seem to have the sneaky ability to steal any and every man right from under a Girls nose, even after or during your third date.

Now I would love to claim that the men I like are impervious to their evil charms, but no less that three prospective beaus have been snapped away by a FH. There was the gorgeous musician, that lasted all but three weeks before a French little FH tore him away. The Clothing designer from Turkey, that would never have lasted anyhow. Last but not least the brainy scientist and humanitarian that was living on his V&A marina based yacht, but in his case the FH did however resemble Penelope Cruze, so what can I say.

But I am used to going up against these sneaky bitches, my real adversary came in the shape, size and form of an almost me… For the first time ever I came head to head with a Cape Town Blonde… Now you know this is a rule of physics, two Absolutely stunning creatures of perfection can not occupy the same UCT finance major trust fund baby, at the same time. This will simply turn into war.

Being an Aquarius, I’ve never really had a taste for blood, and while I am all for peace, love and sharing, there are just some things a girl does not lend or borrow, those being your car, your Charley G, and your beau.

Imagine my surprise, when one night I walked into my hallowed St Yves, tip tap up the main staircase and straight to the bar. As I lean over the bar, my favorite barman, his name escapes me, pours me my favorite without being told (See, I am a creature of habit, and I like things just so), and as I arrange my golden alligator clutch under the one arm, and the kodac and Graham B in the other, I pass a fellow CTB with a nod and a smile, and trailing behind her in her hand is MY latest accessory.

Not a handbag or white Black Berry, no not a vanilla cigarello or an overpriced glass of covousier, but a man, to be precise my latest toy! My ATM… the clever trust fund baby. Sly bitch! We have an agreement, a code! Outrage, who did she think she was, and clearly she had no idea who she was dealing with. Just the weekend before I had lain very public claim to the TFB (the flash backs still make me smile) and here she was messing with my cut of the kingdom.

My first strategy was to play it cool, with my BFF at my side I stalked from one side of St. Yves to the other, refusing bottle service, sighting irreconcilable calories. Just to get a good look at them together. After my fourth cross club country trip, and four glasses of GB rose, the exact details of my “playing it cool” strategy became very unspecific, so unspecific in fact that I followed her to the bathroom, after she had to be surgically removed from his face.

I stood behind her in the que and as I was about to reach out and tap her on the shoulder I got basically run tackled by my BFF. “Noooooo! Hey! Lets go to the barrrr!” she snarled through clenched teeth. This was code for discussing strategy, and all was well on track, till we got to the bar that is. My BFF was doing a shit job of baby sitting, and started chatting away to some man in a bad suit. I escaped and took ten steps to where he was standing, the TFB that is, for the first and only ever time in my life so far, I threw a perfectly bubbly glass of GB rose in a useless man’s face.

Now I wish I can say, after this, he felt like a fool, grabbed pirate hooker Barbie and left, but the whole thing escalated into  a bit of a  mess, and I ended up crying over my Woolies chicken korma at Engen, with a packet of frozen peas on my elbow (don’t even ask, it was beyond) and pirate hooker Barbie ended up at cape town medi clinic… ha ha!

The moral of this story, is to stick together and stick to squasing FH’s… it’s against nature to go up against  a magnificent creature such as a 5, 9′ CTB…