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4.29.2003 *Master Stylist*

As life gets back to normal, there are many things to take care of – catching up with work, getting the car inspected, a bunch of things, and also getting a haircut. Tromping around with my moppy top for the past couple of months has been, for the most part, a little bothersome at times. Usually, it’s all right, but there are those few times when I wish things up there could just be a little neater.

Letting my hair grow a little bit longer than usual has its advantages. One of which is the need for fewer haircuts. I made an appointment with the newfound place, Pilo Arts, and again with a different stylist. It seems that the original stylist that cut my hair was pretty awesome, but as it turns out, decided to work elsewhere. The way they organize their staff is interesting. They have an interesting tiering system, where at the bottom is a Creative Artist, and at the top a Master Stylist. I was just assuming that they range in talent, but who knows. The first stylist was actually just a Creative Artist. Seeing how I was pretty happy with him and would return to if he still worked there, I can only imagine what the higher-level stylists had to offer. (Now, before you go hee-ing and haw-ing about how I’m so frivolous and going straight to the top, please note that this really is only a $5 difference).

The day of the appointment came, and gleefully, I was off to the Salon. We had to run a few errands, so Elizabeth just dropped me off and agreed to pick me up later.

My current hairstyle wasn’t bad; just a little sloppy. Actually, it resembled a shorter version of what I had in high school when I was heavily into Heavy Metal music. I was open to new suggestions, but in the worse case, I was happy to keep this style if only to neaten things up. In all the excitement, I got there slightly early. But only to have to wait for like 45 minutes, only to meet with the Master Stylists assistant first.

[Oh this has to be good. Felt like I was going to Oz.]

Well, the assistant was gracious, washed my hair and all of that. I was guided to an open chair, and then was offered my choice of cappuccino, coffee, tea, or water. I declined. I sat. I waited. And waited.

About 15 minutes later, the Master Stylist arrived. Brushed away the cobwebs from my eyes, and confirmed I wasn’t dreaming – yes, the Master Stylist had arrived. I would try and describe the experience at that point, but it was all sort of a blur (all the pixie dust). I remember her asking me what I wanted to do with my hair. The part I don’t recall and can’t seem to connect is what I said and the hairstyle that came out of it afterwards.

Yeah. It seems that everyone and their brother has had this experience one time or another. (Take note—the pixie dust was all a stage prop)

It was a lot shorter and very, very preppy-like. Not like this was bad, it was just really different from what I had in mind. It just seemed that the Master Stylist just seemed to do whatever she wanted. I even requested subtle high-lites.. I repeat, subtle. I work in a conservative environment – please, can I check again? Yes, I said subtle.

Twenty minutes later – As I looked in the mirror – you know, I don’t really mind the blond streaks. I love how it matches the rest of my jet-black hair, but I think we have a slight misunderstanding here. I look like a bumble bee, and that’s alright.. no really, but I wasn’t going after the insect look.

This is when I found that there is this magic elixir called toner. It was meant to darken the just lightened high-lites. She had her assistant apply some and checked back with me later. Fine. Fine. (The pixie dust reappeared).

The finishing styling was actually pretty neat. It’s interesting how they can make everything picture perfect (never to be humanly repeatable from that day forward—that’s just how it is). The only thing is that it was almost too perfect. I made the phone call to let Elizabeth know it was time to come by. I stood outside and leaned against the wall.

Elizabeth loves it. She absolutely adores it. She noted how it makes me look gay, or at least a bit on the effeminate side. But she noted how she likes the clean gay look.

Uh … great. I was actually hoping for more of an artistic look, but … great.

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...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...




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