Thursday, March 30, 2006
"Yes, That's It....You Have Homosexual Hair."
So the AfBo/Bo-Fro was getting a little out of control. Those from the West Side were telling me not to cut it, those from the East Side were threatening to buzz my head in my sleep. I, my friends, was torn. In the end, I decided to take the leap into adulthood and get my ears lowered. Before we go any further, here's a pic of the rock-star/redneck hair pre-chopping:
Notice the subtle flip in the back and the long Clark Kent-esque curl in the front, offsetting each other and covering the ever-increasing male pattern baldness which will inevitably leave me with a natural mohawk...but I digress.
My mother has been harping on me forever to go to the Salon (that's right I said it) where she gets her hair styled. I, like most men ages 18-30, usually get my hair cut at a Hack-and-Whack shop like Great Clips or SuperCuts. This time, though, I figured that my hair was long enough that if I just got it buzzed (as I usually do) it would be too stark a contrast, thus negating 2% of my overall sexiness. I decided that I would humor my mother and get my hair "done" at her "salon"...though I had no intention of letting anyone know. The ensuing escapade was too rich to deny you, my faithful friend, from hearing. I hope you appreciate what I'm about to do for your amusement...no single member of the "Nickel Package" will EVER let me live this one down:
As I entered for my "appointment" I looked around to find no barber's chairs. Just two desks, two chairs to sit in while waiting, and a general "I'm not sophisticated enough to be in this building" feeling to it (Side Note: I've felt this way before in restaurants/museums, but never in a barber's shop). Now I know what you're thinking, "Two chairs to wait in?" Yeah, there's only two because as soon as you get there and attempt to give your name the assistant of the "stylist" you are having your hair cut by comes back and greets you (yeah they have assistants). She takes you behind a wall and you finally get to see all the barber's chairs. The assistant sits me down and informs me that the "stylist" cutting my hair will want to have a "consult" with me before we commence. What...the...fuck? It's a hair cut, not plastic surgery. At this point I'm waiting for the assistant to bust out consents and contracts for me to sign, waiving the stylist of any liability for unforeseen "accidents" during this procedure I'm about to endure. Assuming that I'm going to be waiting a while (like in the doctor's office) I get comfortable and then, out of nowhere, the stylist appears and begins her own sick game of 20 questions. (I say she appears out of nowhere because I literally blinked and she was suddenly behind me, critiquing the debacle that was my hair). She asks the standard, what do you want to do? how much do you want cut? blah blah blah.
We finish the interview and I'm thinking, "Finally, just cut my hair and let me get the hell out of here before I lower the gross value of this place any more." My stylist informs me that with the hair cut comes a complimentary scalp massage and "hot towel facial," and asks if I would be interested. A cold sweat breaks over me. What do I do? I've never been in a place like this and I don't want to seem like a hayseed, but at the same time getting a "facial" and scalp massage makes me question my own sexuality...I'm torn. Just then a light flicks on and, I shit you not, I thought..."this would make a great blog," so I agreed and the assistant took me back into yet another room for my ritual homosexualizing.
This room was dimly lit, with a waterfall fountain on one wall, a massage chair recessed on another and two padded tables connected to sinks in the middle of it. I was scared man. First came the scalp massage. Assistant sat me in a massage chair, squirted my hair with water, and began rubbing my head. Oh...sweet...ecstasy. She also massaged my neck and back while I was there, all the while making idle chit-chat and pretending she gave a rats ass about my life in general. We next moved to the table where she washed and conditioned my hair while spraying god knows what on my face and planting a scorching hot towel over it. Could have done without that. Finally...FINALLY...it was time for me to get my hair cut.
Assistant took me back to the seat where I had my "consult" and sat me down. Again, like a damn phantom, the "stylist" appeared and, without saying a word, began snipping my hair like a mad woman. I realized then that all the foreplay that occurs at a regular barber's shop was performed by Assistant and "stylist" was just there to finish you off and get you out the door...I felt so violated. About half-way through the "stylist" stopped to ask me if I would like any coffee or tea. Tears swelling in my eyes I declined, still feeling too dirty to speak. During this time, Assistant was watching in awe at every snip that "stylist" made. If "stylist" moved in a way where Assistant couldn't see, Assistant would dart to re-establish a line of sight. Then it hit me, "Assistant is the fluffer, training to be the porn star."
When all was said and done, Assistant swept up the mountain of hair that had fallen off my head (some from the hair cut, some from the constant balding) and "stylist" walked me out. Honestly, it is probably the best hair cut I've ever had...but after leaving there I find myself a lot more interested in Judy Garland and Barbara Streisan. Oh well...BYE-BYE SILLIES!!!
Much Love,
Bo
Notice the subtle flip in the back and the long Clark Kent-esque curl in the front, offsetting each other and covering the ever-increasing male pattern baldness which will inevitably leave me with a natural mohawk...but I digress.
My mother has been harping on me forever to go to the Salon (that's right I said it) where she gets her hair styled. I, like most men ages 18-30, usually get my hair cut at a Hack-and-Whack shop like Great Clips or SuperCuts. This time, though, I figured that my hair was long enough that if I just got it buzzed (as I usually do) it would be too stark a contrast, thus negating 2% of my overall sexiness. I decided that I would humor my mother and get my hair "done" at her "salon"...though I had no intention of letting anyone know. The ensuing escapade was too rich to deny you, my faithful friend, from hearing. I hope you appreciate what I'm about to do for your amusement...no single member of the "Nickel Package" will EVER let me live this one down:
As I entered for my "appointment" I looked around to find no barber's chairs. Just two desks, two chairs to sit in while waiting, and a general "I'm not sophisticated enough to be in this building" feeling to it (Side Note: I've felt this way before in restaurants/museums, but never in a barber's shop). Now I know what you're thinking, "Two chairs to wait in?" Yeah, there's only two because as soon as you get there and attempt to give your name the assistant of the "stylist" you are having your hair cut by comes back and greets you (yeah they have assistants). She takes you behind a wall and you finally get to see all the barber's chairs. The assistant sits me down and informs me that the "stylist" cutting my hair will want to have a "consult" with me before we commence. What...the...fuck? It's a hair cut, not plastic surgery. At this point I'm waiting for the assistant to bust out consents and contracts for me to sign, waiving the stylist of any liability for unforeseen "accidents" during this procedure I'm about to endure. Assuming that I'm going to be waiting a while (like in the doctor's office) I get comfortable and then, out of nowhere, the stylist appears and begins her own sick game of 20 questions. (I say she appears out of nowhere because I literally blinked and she was suddenly behind me, critiquing the debacle that was my hair). She asks the standard, what do you want to do? how much do you want cut? blah blah blah.
We finish the interview and I'm thinking, "Finally, just cut my hair and let me get the hell out of here before I lower the gross value of this place any more." My stylist informs me that with the hair cut comes a complimentary scalp massage and "hot towel facial," and asks if I would be interested. A cold sweat breaks over me. What do I do? I've never been in a place like this and I don't want to seem like a hayseed, but at the same time getting a "facial" and scalp massage makes me question my own sexuality...I'm torn. Just then a light flicks on and, I shit you not, I thought..."this would make a great blog," so I agreed and the assistant took me back into yet another room for my ritual homosexualizing.
This room was dimly lit, with a waterfall fountain on one wall, a massage chair recessed on another and two padded tables connected to sinks in the middle of it. I was scared man. First came the scalp massage. Assistant sat me in a massage chair, squirted my hair with water, and began rubbing my head. Oh...sweet...ecstasy. She also massaged my neck and back while I was there, all the while making idle chit-chat and pretending she gave a rats ass about my life in general. We next moved to the table where she washed and conditioned my hair while spraying god knows what on my face and planting a scorching hot towel over it. Could have done without that. Finally...FINALLY...it was time for me to get my hair cut.
Assistant took me back to the seat where I had my "consult" and sat me down. Again, like a damn phantom, the "stylist" appeared and, without saying a word, began snipping my hair like a mad woman. I realized then that all the foreplay that occurs at a regular barber's shop was performed by Assistant and "stylist" was just there to finish you off and get you out the door...I felt so violated. About half-way through the "stylist" stopped to ask me if I would like any coffee or tea. Tears swelling in my eyes I declined, still feeling too dirty to speak. During this time, Assistant was watching in awe at every snip that "stylist" made. If "stylist" moved in a way where Assistant couldn't see, Assistant would dart to re-establish a line of sight. Then it hit me, "Assistant is the fluffer, training to be the porn star."
When all was said and done, Assistant swept up the mountain of hair that had fallen off my head (some from the hair cut, some from the constant balding) and "stylist" walked me out. Honestly, it is probably the best hair cut I've ever had...but after leaving there I find myself a lot more interested in Judy Garland and Barbara Streisan. Oh well...BYE-BYE SILLIES!!!
Much Love,
Bo
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Stay Tuned...
It's been a while, I apologize. I've gotten some flack for my blogging hiatus but I've been hella busy lately...lame excuse I know. I can tell you that I have had the Af-Bo cut and am currently working on a blog explaining the fiasco that was my hair cut...I promise it will be entertaining. Hopefully I'll have that up sometime this week. Until then...
Much Love,
Bo
Much Love,
Bo
