Polite Insanity

I was hesitant, with good reason.
It's unnerving to enter the dating world after a 30 year marriage.
Well-meaning friends gave countless suggestions, until one evening after Bunco...
I went along with the unmarried crowd.
To a dance club.
For singles.

When we walked into the club with its swirling smoke and loud music, gyrating strangers, and milling men-on-the-make, I knew I was in over my head and out of my league. Being a good sport and wanting to know what this scene was all about, I took in a deep breath, threw my shoulders back, plastered on a smile, and took my seat with the other girls.

He approached our table and singled me out. Black wiry chest hairs peeked from the Travolta-esque shirt; the few, the proud, the revolting, the bold ten matched a shock of black, slickly groomed hair combed in tribute to Elvis. While I saw the neon sign blinking "disaster" glowing from his forehead, I did not break and run. I'm polite. I'm also insane.

After I lied about my job, he told me he was a painter. "That ought to be good for a few moments of conversation," I thought.  "What style of painting do you prefer?" should have opened the door to a nice monologue in reply.  "Not that kind of painter," he laughed, "a house painter.  That's how I lost part of this finger." I chose not to hear the rest of the story.

I jumped down from the stool, said, "excuse me," found the girl who suggested this lame-brain adventure and told her I'd had just about as much fun as humanly possible and was retiring for the night.

Those black hairs said it all; the missing body part added the exclamation point.

Telling Your Own Stories - American Storytelling
Did I depict this man at the singles club in one sentence (bold italics)?