I haven’t stepped foot in a hair salon since George W was arm wrestling Dick Cheney for the remote control in the Oval Office.
Cost Cutters doesn’t count. I visited the place once about ten years ago, despite the fact I was stone cold sober at the time. I was rewarded with a fast food haircut for my piss poor judgement and my daughter started cutting my hair after that. She’s one of those people who can basically do anything really well, even if she’s never done it before, and cutting hair was no different.
I used to go to Regis when I had a regular stylist. Her name was Judi and from the first time she cut my hair, I knew she was the one. The girl had my hair down to a science, and we would rendezvous every couple months in the early morning before the mall opened.
A hairstylist like Judi comes along once in a lifetime, and so when she moved away I knew my hair would never find another pair of hands that fit like hers. I got with her friend at the salon a few times after that, but it was painfully obvious that her cut just didn’t do it for me. And so I moved on.
It was sometime after this that my follicles came under attack by a rambunctious band of guerrillas that were being funded by stress and hula hooping hormones. Dames and hypothyroidism were filching my once thick mane, pushing my inner Pterelaus to what I assumed would be comb-over status before too long.
I became very introspective, thinking back to all the times when I had taken my hair for granted. Like the time I bleached it in high school and it came out Greg Brady orange. Or when I tried straightening it because, get this . . I didn’t like wavy hair. There was my Pat Riley period, where I took to slicking back my hair. And caps . . all those fucking ball caps I wore when I should have been showing off all the hair I had!
And just as I was becoming resigned to the idea of going bald, a funny thing happened. I didn’t go bald. This was “The Comeback” in which I staved off follicle elimination with biotin and less dramatic romantic entanglements; the latter proving itself every bit as useful a remedy as its B complex compadre. The bathroom sink no longer felt like a Japanese horror flick. My hair was thinner, sure . . but it was still my hair.
And then one day I shaved my head, for the hell of it. All the angst I’d experienced in regards to going bald, and there I was, doing it to myself. The worst part was not knowing what my naked cranium was going to look like. The conversation I had with myself whilst shaving went something like this . . .
Oh what the FUCK did I do!
Hey! This ain’t so bad . . . it’s pretty okay!
This better be okay or Imma hole up in a cabin in the woods for a year!
Oh shit, is this?
I imagined it would be smooth sailing once the top was down, but I found myself shaving my head every couple days thanks to the dark roots that would show up loudly. And talk about irony, to be complaining about my hair . . . when I didn’t have any! I did the Kojak for a couple years before going back. I started cutting my own hair after this because now I had a proven contingency plan in place in the event I ever pull a Picasso whilst clipping.
Which brings me to the Halloween costume party I’ll be attending as Kwai Chang Caine from Kung Fu. So yeah . . it means Imma shave my head again. For the hell of it, again. In spite of the angst this will result in as I wonder if it will return to me, again.
Occam called. He wants his razor back.
(Special gracias to Q for the tune)