One of the perks of living in Lebanon is custom-made furniture. Right now, I’m working with a carpenter who promised me the loveliest Parisian-style closet “that I will not find if I searched the entire country” according to him.

That’s good enough for me; even though I gave him a magazine cut-out and asked him to simply duplicate it. He did a great job on it except for the paint job- it made me nauseous. I had to get it redone.

So I sent my man out on a witch hunt for the best furniture painter in the city, someone who can make something new look vintage and shabby minus the tacky. After meeting with four, I finally found the one.

He was super attentive and knowledgeable when I met him at the workshop. I was very impressed with all the wonderful tips he gave me, the guy knew his woodwork. In fact, he was so helpful that before I knew it we had spent a little over an hour discussing the closet and all the great things it would become. He even offered to paint some chairs for me free of charge. We agreed on a price and he’d deliver in two-weeks. I felt so lucky to have found him. Until things turned weird.

“I want to ask you something, but please don’t take it the wrong way.” he smirked.

Suddenly, he was no longer the perfect painter, I took a closer look at him and noticed his shirt had been opened three buttons down and his curly chest hair could really use a trim. He wore a long gold chain necklace and it seemed as though he was bald but in denial, folding a patch of long hair growing only on one side of his head to cover the empty patch on the other.

“Um, yes, sure” I reluctantly replied

“What is the name of your colognia” he said as he gazed excitedly into my eyes.

“Colognia?” I asked

“Your smell, it’s beautiful what is it?”

I hoped this was not happening. Please tell me that the perfect painter I had found is not a sleazy old man now trying to stalk me with my scent. Why is this happening to me? Did he not know how long it took me to find him?

“ I dunno but I have to go” I said as I scrambled to pick up my stuff and get out of there.

Maybe he didn’t mean anything by it; maybe he genuinely liked my scent. I didn’t want to tell my man about the incident, I had a feeling he’d flip out and I’d lose my perfect painter. But the thought of being alone again with him again creeped me out. So I focus-grouped the incident with my girlfriends and the verdict was in: He’s a sleazebag. Apparently, it wasn’t right for a forty-something man (did I mention the wedding band) to ask a twenty-something woman something like that. What do you think, could this be an innocent question or should I make a run for it?

Read More On Sleazebags:

The Indiscretions Of A Lebanese Man

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