Enough about me... let's talk more about me


1.21.2003 Good Hair Day


I sat in the crowded waiting room preoccupied with playing this neat game on the Palm Pilot (yes, I really love this thing) while the wife, Elizabeth, is in the doctorís office. It occurs to me that my hair has gotten really very annoying. If I donít load up with tons of hair gel, my bangs just swing frontward and sit in front of my face. It feels like such an accomplishment to have my hair grow so long where the tips of my bangs actually reach my mouth, but at the same time, itís just so freakiní annoying. So annoying in fact, that Iím at the point where if I donít do something about it, Iím going to just yank out a pair of scissors myself.

My bangs swing across once again and I can stands no more!

Usually, I would get my hair cut at a nickel and dime store, but those are usually hit or miss, and this time, I wanted to try something a little different and thereís that little side note of after 7 months of not cutting it, I wanted some good odds of it coming out looking like something. Iíve been hearing good things about this one she-she hair place, and Iíve been just tempted to give it a try. I pull out my trusty cell phone, dial 411, listen to James Earl Jones say, ďVerizon Wireless 4-1-1Ē (I donít know about anyone else, but I usually try and imitate James Earl Jones every time I hear him, ďSuccumb to the dark side, my son.Ē).

Due to the full waiting room, I try and be discrete as possibleóafter all, there were other men in the room too. I know this. Once in a while, we grant the mutual proverbial manly-man nod to each other.

So I try to whisper, ďCan I get the number for a Pilo Arts?Ö Um, I said Pilo Arts? Ö No, not pillow farts, Pilo ArtsÖ yes, Arts!Ö yes, Iíll hold for the number. Um, what was that? No.. not that one, not the spa, Ö I said, no, not the spa! Yes, yes.. the salon. ÖI said, yes! The salon!Ē

At this point, I had lost the respect of the manly-men in the waiting area. They look away. They look upwards to the ceiling. They do not make eye contact. There is no mutual proverbial manly-man nod. I didnít get to play in any manly-men games.

A few hours later, I find myself at Pilo Arts (not pillow farts). The place is bright, retro, plush, and definitely crowded wall to wall with pretty people everywhere. I stood off to the side with my complimentary cup of coffee and try not to generalize. I am told that Jerry, my hair consultant, will be out in a few minutes to meet me. ĎOh a man,í I think to myself, ĎI hope heís not straight.í Will not generalize. Will not. I donít know why, but instinctually, Iím thinking a straight man will not be able to offer hair advice better than a gay manónow, if thatís not heterophobic, I donít know what is.

Moments later, Jerry shows up, and Iím whisked away inwards to Pilo Arts land. This place is deceptively huge, breaking off into corridors and separate plush sub-sectioned rooms, all full of pretty people, of course (affluent laughter). By the way, I couldnít tell if Jerry was gay, but he was slightly effeminate, so that calmed my nerves somewhat. Within 2 minutes, he had supplied a full analysis of my hair and it was slightly more detailed than I expected (see what happens when you donít cut your hair for 7 months?). The basic rundown was that it was too thick and weighted down. What was to be done was to keep the length, but lighten up the thickness at several points of the crown. And, a little color didnít hurt; subtle highlights.

I never colored my hair before, but this was only highlights. It was going to be interesting.

To make a long story shorter, I sat in the chair with my head was full of tin foil, and I looked like cousin It from the Adams Family. Later, the tin foil was removed and Jerry detailed my hair, which took forever, with a straight-edged razor. Some people know that Iím slightly paranoid of razors (http://www.outrageousthoughts.com/old/razor.htm), but Iíve come far since then, and I know now that razors cannot kill meómaim me, yes, but not kill me. Not like a bowie knife however, which would probably do a little more than maim me. Now, if Jerry pulled out a bowie knife and started cutting strands of hair off my head, I may have ran for the door.

Anyhow, I walked out of there looking like a million bucks, my hair doesnít clump in front of my face anymore, and its a little brighter, alike the sun.

Yes, Elizabeth loves it (affluent laughter).

email a copy of this entry to a friend

 

 
 


...One thing is that no matter how old I am, I probably will not like being called sir or mister, for they have always seemed too far out of reach...

  

 
 

 
 

Be notified of page updates

get free updates