Well. What is a disaster date actually? You would think: a date where you don't have much to tell each other. A date with a much too small, humorless man with ugly shoes and/or a weird pair of pants. And I could go on for a while. They come in all shapes and sizes. Here’s mine.

My Disaster Date – version 1

It all started at Amayzine HQ. I looked sweetly at beauty editor Josselin, asking if I could rummage through her cosmetics cabinet. I could use some hairspray and a blush before I sat down with a man I personally selected. I chose a dry shampoo, the latest of the latest. I put in a lot, enthusiastically tousled my hair, and was ready for a voluminous hairstyle. Unfortunately. It was as if I had turned into Cruella de Vil. As if I had just stuck my finger in the socket. And it had also become rock hard. There was nothing else to do: I jumped back on my bike to go home to wash and blow-dry my hair again. Oh, and I quickly painted my nails.

My Disaster Date – version 2

With half wet hair, still in a hurry, nervous and not entirely satisfied with my look, I finally sat on my bike on my way to the restaurant. I raced through Vondelpark, but dear people, due to the cold wind, I suddenly got a RUNNY NOSE. And yes, as uncharming as it is, I wiped the wetness away from under my nose with my fingers. You guessed it; there was a fresh stripe of Chanel Rouge Noir nail polish under my nose. A very thick, fat stripe. Really, it was just a fucking mustache.

The cursing and swearing had already started in my mind an hour ago, but now it came out loud: I was late, my hair was wet, and I had a dark red nail polish stripe under my nose. I tried to work it away, which made me draw another stripe underneath with another nail.

My Disaster Date – version 3

I parked my bike under a streetlight and looked for a mirror. In the meantime, everything was covered in nail polish. And there was no mirror anywhere. “Jet, where has your head gone,” I shouted out loud to myself. I set my phone to selfie camera mode and used the streetlight to see well where the nail polish had spread. Do you see me standing? After minutes of scratching, I finally managed to get rid of my mustache. I jumped back on my bike, quickly called a friend because I had to share the story and arrived at the destination. ‘Hi, hi, nice to see you, blah blah blah, kiss kiss, you know how it goes.

My Disaster Date – version 4

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on the toilet (I still didn't really know what I thought of the date) and I realized that I still had a bright red mustache. Dammit! How?! Cold water, a bit of cream, a bit of cursing, finally the mustache stripe was really gone.

My Disaster Date – version 5

Okay, the date itself. It was quite nice, you know, we chatted a bit, laughed a little, exchanged winks, a hand on the leg, here and there I made a nice joke. But that was about it. I paid (I had invited him) and left. The whole story had cost me a lot of energy. And a lot of money. Great then. And god, what could I have bought with that money: beautiful shoes. And a bottle of supersonic quick-drying nail polish.