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 doctor’s office. It occurs to me that my hair has gotten really very annoying. If I don’t 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, it’s just so freakin’ annoying. So annoying in fact, that I’m at the point where if I don’t do something about it, I’m 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 there’s that little side note of after 7 months of not cutting it, I wanted some good odds of it coming out looking like something. I’ve been hearing good things about this one she-she hair place, and I’ve been just tempted to give it a try. I pull out my trusty cell phone, dial 411, listen to James Earl Jones say, “Verizon Wireless 4-1-1” (I don’t know about anyone else, but I usually try and imitate James Earl Jones every time I hear him, “Succumb to the dark side, my son.”).

Due to the full waiting room, I try and be discrete as possible—after 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, “Can I get the number for a Pilo Arts?… Um, I said Pilo Arts? … No, not pillow farts, Pilo Arts… yes, Arts!… yes, I’ll hold for the number. Um, what was that? No.. not that one, not the spa, … I said, no, not the spa! Yes, yes.. the salon. …I said, yes! The salon!”

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 didn’t 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. ‘Oh a man,’ I think to myself, ‘I hope he’s not straight.’ Will not generalize. Will not. I don’t know why, but instinctually, I’m thinking a straight man will not be able to offer hair advice better than a gay man—now, if that’s not heterophobic, I don’t know what is.

Moments later, Jerry shows up, and I’m 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 couldn’t 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 don’t 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 didn’t 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 I’m slightly paranoid of razors (http://www.outrageousthoughts.com/old/razor.htm), but I’ve come far since then, and I know now that razors cannot kill me—maim 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 doesn’t clump in front of my face anymore, and its a little brighter, alike the sun.

Yes, Elizabeth loves it (affluent laughter).