Times like these are always nerve-racking. Waiting for the phone to ring knowing the small-talk will be stilted and painfully nervous – filled with pauses and shy coughs of laughter.   
‘Vivacious crazy-haired girl seeks M GSOH for nights out and walks in the country. Herpetologists need not call’.
It was the crazy-haired part that had caught my attention. Nights out and walks in the country are simply garden-variety clichés for these ads. I bet she didn’t even own a pair of walking-shoes. As for the herpetologists - well, I would just have to ask. But hair - hair can say a lot about a girl. Dyed blonde – ditzy and generic.  Pixie-cuts – vegetarian but frisky. Permed – don’t even go there. But crazy – crazy has mystery, potential and a hint of off-the-wall kinkiness. This thought made my imagination spin -  with images of crazy-haired girls doing crazy things and in a very kinky fashion.

Despite the chill of the evening, I walked infused with the warm frisson of excitement blended with apprehension. My fingertips tingled as I skipped across the cobblestones, breath steaming in the night air. With the streets passing me by in a hazy blur of orange lamp-light, I reached my destination with a minimum of conscious thought. We were to meet in one of the towns more low-key pubs. No loud music, no chavs and definitely no television. Just leather sofas, soft lighting and a log fire.  
Tonight the hearth was hogged by the landlord's pet dog - a huge Irish wolfhound whose chief interests included sleeping and scrounging off of patrons. In a half-doze, he watched with one eye open as I made my way to the bar, waiting to see if I bought a bag of crisps. Instead, I ordered a solitary pint of bitter. The dog snorted in indignation and closed his eye as I looked around the room for my date.
Adjusting my eyes to the half-gloom, it became clear that my excitement had made me early. With pint in hand, I found a vacant booth and settled down to wait, sipping patiently on my beer in anticipation of crazy hair.
The clock behind the bar continued to tick and was accompanied by the snores of the dog and the crackle of the fireplace. Twice, the door opened and I looked up, hopeful, only to be disappointed, by a shaven head and a very pedestrian ponytail.  I continued to wait. Eventually, at ten minutes after eight, she came through the door. It HAD to be her. Slightly tinted glasses with thick dark rims sat beneath a large knitted hat which appeared to contain a large mass of hair (dreadlocks? I found myself wondering).  I was sure the hair in the hat was crazy.  It had to be!
She wasted no time and quickly ordered a drink at the bar - something with an olive bobbing up and down amidst chunks of ice. She picked up the drink and we both did that kind of 'looking-up-and-seeking-eye-contact' thing. With few people in the pub, we connected rapidly. She smiled as she walked over and I stood up to greet her.
  "Hi, Adam I am guessing?"  The voice was husky, with a touch of an accent I could not quite place.
I smiled, “Euryale, it's good to meet you.” We both sat, each of us preparing to fend off the inevitable threat of the awkward silence. After a few seconds, I took the plunge.
  "That's a strange name, but it's pretty, is it foreign?" As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realised how stupid I sounded and hoped she wouldn't take offence.
  "Just an old family name, but I like it.' She plucked the olive from her glass and placed it in her mouth. For a moment I was completely taken, captivated by the sight. Catching myself, I asked another question.
  "So do you really enjoy long walks in the countryside?"
Euryale's eyebrow rose. "In these shoes?” She poked a foot out from under the table to display an entirely uncomfortable-looking example of female footwear. “No, I just felt sort of obligated to put it in - doesn't everyone put that in their advert? But I do like the sea - my father lives on the coast and that's where I grew up with my sisters."
As Euryale spoke, I could not help but notice her hat squirm. Hiding my surprise by taking a deep swig of beer, I tried not to make it obvious that I was watching her hat as she continued to speak.  It was just so mesmeric.
  ". . . and that's what I'm doing now. It's not that glamorous, but I enjoy it."
  "What?" I spluttered, trying to regain composure.  My mind raced.  Should I say something?  Surely it would be terribly impolite.  Besides, what would I say?  I resolved to keep quiet – for now at least.
  "The museum archive. Are you okay, you seem a little distracted?"
There! It moved again - I was certain!  An undulation of crocheted wool, a ripple of home-made head-wear!  The curiosity was too strong, I had to know what it was!
  "Um, it's, well," I paused, trying to find the words, "your hat just. . .  moved." I nervously awaited denouncement as either an idiot or a lunatic and clutched my near-empty pint.  For a moment Euryale visibly tensed. In the background the clock's tick was amplified to  a metronomic boom.  This was a pregnant pause with complications.  Eventually though, my date started to speak.
  "Ah. I wondered how long it would take for you to notice that.”  She fidgeted a moment with her glass. “Look, I'm going to show you something - just don't freak out on me, okay?"
Reaching up with one bronzed hand, slender fingers pulled back at the edge of her knitted hat. Suddenly, in the dim glow of the lamplight, coils of green iridescence writhed.
  "What is that?" I squinted, angling for a closer look.
Locking one finger underneath one of the coils, Euryale slid out the unmistakable form of a slender green snake from beneath her hat. Also unmistakable was the fact that the snake was firmly rooted to the top of her head and there were more than one! The snake quietly hissed and blinked little amber eyes before being replaced under the hat.  In other circumstances, I would have found it rather cute.
  "What?" I squeaked, barely able to function.
  "I told you I had crazy hair. Now, you had better deal with this quickly because I want more than stunned shock for the rest of the evening."
  "You're a gorgon?" It was more of a statement than a question.  The only other explanation was that she was some sort of nut-job who liked to wear a hat full of snakes.  But no – the snakes were attached to her head.  She was a genuine, snakes for hair mythical personage! As the realisation hit me, I found myself staring resolutely at the fireplace, avoiding her gaze, terror welling up from the pit of my stomach. “I watched Clash of the Titans!  You're going to turn me to stone!”
  "Yes, I'm a gorgon. And please stop staring at the fireplace, I'm not going to turn you to stone - at least not unless you take my glasses off."
  “Are you sure?”  I remained still, eyes fixed on the flames.
  “Of course I am sure.  Look, just because we got a bit of a bad press does not mean we're evil monstrosities.  I may be demi-human, but I am all woman.”
I somewhat nervously turned back to face my date, who despite my barely reigned-in terror, looked particularly hot. She leaned forward and grinned, giving me a generous view of some quite spectacular cleavage.  My eyes clung to that wonderful sight like limpets.
  "See - I'm not that scary. I've not even turned anyone to stone in centuries."  Euryale grinned and sipped her drink.  “You certainly seem to be enjoying the scenery.”
I blushed, not just because she had caught me looking at her cleavage but because, in a manner of speaking, she was turning me to stone - at least one part of me. Sensing my discomfort, she slid her tongue slowly over her top lip.
  "I'll get some drinks then," I said hurriedly, rising from the table and banging my knee in the process, hoping my priapic excitement was not noticeable to the pub at large. All Euryale did was continue to grin.

  The rest, as they say, is history. Or at least myth. We dated for some time. Euryale proved excellent company, and once I got used to her 'quirks', we became as normal as any other couple. Of course, there are differences. Principally that she spends far less time doing her hair than any other woman I have known.  Of course, the flip-side is when her snakes shed their skin – it makes her crabby and I keep finding the bits for weeks afterwards. In bed, she is excellent (though for safety's sake, lights out is best - I have no wish to become a piece of erotic statuary) and she knows the most interesting people.  Who would have thought that the Furies would be such a good laugh once they have a drink or two?  And did I mention our daughter?  Little Medusa, named for her aunt and exactly like her mother – her head crowned with the cutest little snakes! Only last week she got in awful trouble for petrifying the school guinea pig.  Her classmates were terrified. Bless. . .