He Likes His Girls a Little Bit Older

Nothing Changes if Nothing Changes

"Nothing changes if nothing changes", a phrase I'd heard from time to time in my life. I'd always thought of that phrase as a tautology like "it is what it is" or "I'll get there when I get there": meaningless. On the night of my 47th birthday, the meaning of that phrase became abundantly clear.

I was a stylist living in Nashville. Not a hair stylist but the kind of stylist who makes celebrities look good. In my case, I worked with Country artists. I was never impressed by the dated look of the sequin jackets or Wranglers so prevalent on the Country stage. I'm more edgy - dare I say - I like a little more "rock and roll" look. You may have noticed that your favorite Country stars look a little cooler and a bit sexier on stage these days. That's all me. I'd been a pretty sought after stylist in Nashville for 15 years. I styled Country icons as well as newcomers for photo shoots, album covers as well as for stage performances. You didn't think they picked out their own clothes did you? I was good at my job and most of the time I enjoyed it. I just felt that my artistic vision for the Country set was getting a little stale.

I had always lived in Franklin - a suburb of Nashville. My 16 year old daughter, Michaela, who was called "Mick" after Mr. Jagger, and I had a nice house in the suburbs. Mick was a Junior at a great high school. Mick's father was long gone and neither of us ever heard from him. But we had a great, albeit kind of boring life. I knew I needed a change. I just didn't know what to change much less how.

On the morning of my 47th birthday, I looked through my calendar to see what the day held. I noticed a meeting I'd planned a few weeks prior. A dinner meeting. Normally, Mick & I would go to dinner with friends on birthdays. I guess I hadn't realized it was my birthday when I accepted this dinner meeting with a new client who had gotten my name from an old college friend. I couldn't cancel. It was unprofessional and would embarrass my friend. So, at 6 pm I headed out to meet up with Mr. Benjamin Edmead.

I arrived at the downtown Nashville restaurant about a minute early - I like to be at least 10 minutes early - but there was a long line at the valet and it was a warm summer Friday in my tourist town home. I glanced across sea of people waiting for a table in the lobby to see if anyone looked as if they were looking for someone. They all seemed to be in conversation or frustrated by the wait so I made my way into the bar that looked over the restaurant tables and the patio beyond them. Still didn't see anyone who looked like they were waiting for someone. I returned to the now available hostess and told her who I was meeting.

"Ah yes," she said in the southern drawl I knew all too well, "you must be Ms. Stonefort".

"Yes, I am", I replied a bit surprised that this new client had been thorough enough to inform the hostess of my name.

"Mr. Edmead and his guests is in the private dining room."

"Guests!?" I thought. I wasn't told I'd be meeting with anyone but him.

The hostess walked ahead of me up a dark stairway with red shag carpet on the walls and stairs. She shined a small flashlight on the stairs so I wouldn't trip. At the top of the stairs was a dark, heavy looking door. The hostess ran a security badge over a box on the wall beside the door. With a click, the door opened and we stepped inside. I was led down a short hallway to a set of double French doors. I could see the evening light falling on the Nashville skyline. We stepped through the French doors where I was greeted by a tall man with long, dark hair pulled neatly back into a ponytail. When I say tall, I mean tall. I am 5'11" in flats and was wearing a heeled shoe. He was at least 3" taller than me.

"Hello, Ms. Stonefort, I'm Ben Edmead" he greeted me with a thick Australian accent.

"Hello. Please call me 'Stoney' everyone does," I replied in the most southern drawl I'd ever heard come out of my mouth.