SNIP IT

I’m hair intolerant. It’s genetic. From my mother’s side of the family. We don’t handle unruly hair.

My hair intolerance came late in life. It’s not that it wasn’t there, but I fought it. I tried to be strong.

I made it through the big, poufy, mega-permed ‘80s and early ‘90s with barely a tic. When I saw Melanie Griffith and Joan Cusack in “Working Girl”, it registered that their coiffures needed taming, but I didn’t respond like it was a horror movie, clenching the armrests and casting my eyes downward to see if popcorn-fed rats lurked at my feet. I watched and told myself movies are make believe and New Jersey is on the other coast. (Admittedly, I may have had my own case of poufy hair, a circumstance that was entirely perm-free.)

I only registered mild annoyance after moving to L.A. twenty-five years ago and seeing middle-aged men deal with receding hairlines by growing it where they could—extending the neckline, clumping it together in a ponytail. Not braided like Willie Nelson. Too much work. This was California casual. On occasion, I wanted to shake these guys and shout, “Your hair’s still receding. We still see that.” But I took my deep breaths, I let that Bobby McFerrin ditty dance in my head and I did some mental “Vogue”-ing. I worked through it.

I thought I made it.

I am not my mother’s son!

Then came the mullet. It proved a greater challenge. I could hear my grandfather in my head. Needs a haircut. Very succinct. He was a keen observer, always wanting to keep the younger generations in check. His tone conveyed more: Thugs and no-goods. A barber would fix ‘em. I believe that was my grandfather’s answer to all the evils of the world. Forget prisons; we need more barbers.

My mother learned well from my grandfather who, incidentally, went bald at the age of twenty. But she was always more verbose. I shudder to think what her commentary would be if she watched an old Michael Bolton video with me. “Where are my scissors? Honestly, what was he thinking? ‘Love Is a Wonderful Thing’? I’ll tell you what’s a wonderful thing. A haircut. Once a month. Five weeks at most. Just look at that mop. It’s like a lion’s mane. I’ll tame it. Clean, crisp snips. And there’d be three new wigs for cancer patients. Although Genie Mulgrove has a stylish collection of bandanas to make the most of things. Satin. Some of them are even from Neiman Marcus. But when you’ve got cancer, you need your splurges.”  

It was a struggle, but I made it through mullets, too. “Hockey hair”, they called it. That helped. I accepted it in the name of national pride. Hockey. Canada. Suck it up.

But I’ve come undone due to the latest hair misstep. I hear my grandfather’s voice saying, Needs a haircut. I hear my mother rambling about her scissors. And even more succinctly than my grandfather, I pose the question: “Why?”

“Why, oh, why, oh, why why why?!” Okay, not so succinctly. I see the redundancy in my thinking but I can’t help myself. I can’t lop off even a single “why”. I. Am. Hair. Intolerant.

There are men walking around with a tiny lock of hair clumped together in a rubber band so that it sticks out of the top of their head. Like a shaggy antenna. Or, more accurately, a ponytail stump. (If you Google "man bun", you'll get lots of scary versions; the men I've seen attempt the look don't have a thick enough clump to form a bun in the first place.)

Why?!

I suspect someone like David Beckham started this. Some sort of soccer requirement. Clump up that loose tuft of hair at the top of the head in case some gust of wind kicks up in the stadium and he gets a red card for giving an opposing player an unwanted hair whipping. But, men, we need to get real. David Beckham can carry off almost anything. He’d be hot in a squirrel costume. We are not David Beckham. We cannot carry off the ponytail stump.

We should know this. As boys, we were told not to play with rubber bands. Clearly, some boys weren’t so compliant. Or perhaps they were and now they are demonstrating a latent need to experiment with elastics.

I’d gladly buy them a geoboard. Anything to keep the rubber bands out of their hair.

Please.

This will not hold up well in one’s personal history. Like crocs and pants that sag down to the knees. I am certain of this. And there will be oodles of incriminating evidence in the form of Instagram and Facebook selfies.

I can hear the children of these men, years from now, looking at pictures of their dads when they actually had hair. But that relatively full head of hear won’t be something the young‘uns marvel at because there will be that overriding distraction. “Uh, dad, why is your hair sticking up at the back in every picture?”

“I meant to do that. It was the fashion.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“It was.” And, god willing, I’ll be there to chime in and say, in a cathartic release, “It wasn’t! It really wasn’t!”

So please, gentlemen, put the rubber bands down. Tame your hair with gobs of goop if you must. It is time to clip the ponytail stump.

If you don’t do it, I may just have to pull out my mother’s scissors. I’m not afraid to use them. My ancestors will cheer me on.

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING? (Part One)

I do not have a tattoo. I will never have one. Yes, this is a “never” I can say with certainty. I hear getting inked can be painful. I do not need to investigate this. Rumor of pain is enough of a deterrent. I have an intense aversion to such a feeling and thus I have come to terms with the fact that I will never get Amy Winehouse permanently etched on my upper arm. It is not much of a hardship. I do not have an urge to identify myself with a singer, a snake, a rose, MOM or some sort of chain-link design. (Call it a hunch, but I don’t imagine tat artists are so skilled with otters, cauliflower or a group shot of the cast of The Golden Girls. Yes, even if I wandered in a tattoo parlor in a drunken state, I would remain an ink virgin. I don’t do Bea Arthur. SLAM!)

So no tattoo for me. My skin will only be covered with SPF 45 and cotton.

My regard for tattoos on others has evolved. I grew up in a conservative, reserved family during the 1970s. Tattoos were for radicals. Prisoners. People who still saw Jane Fonda movies. Extras in “Easy Rider”. If anyone let a tattoo show, I was trained to look away. No telling how many times I saved myself from being stabbed to death.

I imagine that long-tatted folks are horrified by how commonplace getting inked has become. In the rural, artsy/blue collar area where I live, a tattoo is no longer the requisite accessory for driving a motorcycle; rather, it is the perfect companion to driving a pickup truck. And everyone drives a pickup. (This is yet another reason why I am the default answer to the local version of One of These Things Is Not like the Others. I am the misfit with my plain ol’ silver Honda Civic. There are perks however. I can easily spot my vehicle in any parking lot. No need for a hot pink paint job.)

It has taken time, but I am finally in a state of mind where I no longer see someone with a tattoo and think he is planning to overthrow the government or lace my latté with LSD. (Is LSD a liquid? I don’t feel a need to Google. It might be scary.) I work with people with tattoos. My cousin has a tat. (An ankle butterfly. Yes, we are related.) I appreciate the fact that a tattoo can make a statement, even add to one’s identity. The tattoo is no longer taboo.

But as with everything, I think some people take inking too far. Indeed, excessive inking can make an attractive person look utterly unappealing. I may be in the minority, but I feel that way about David Beckham. This man is almost universally lusted over. He is one fine man. Or he was. A few tats? Fine. But he kept going. Why distract from perfection? I still find his face attractive, but that’s it. In the coming year, he may cover his cheeks and forehead with tatted leopard spots and then all will be lost.

A more current rendition of Adam Levine.

Adam during his minimalist phase.

Same for Adam Levine. He’s not Sexiest-Man-Alive worthy, but he certainly caught my eye when I first saw the video for “This Love”. Beautiful. Now he, like Beckham, is the living, breathing version of a hoarder’s house. Tattoo clutter.

No matter how much you love dragons, NO MORE TCHOTCHKES!

All this came to mind again Friday night as I went to the gym to squeeze in a mediocre end-of-week workout. As gyms in January are clogged with well-intentioned resolution makers, this promised to be a rare moment when I wouldn’t have to wait for any weights or machines. Despite my fatigue, I changed into my gear and went. The alternatives, 8 p.m. bedtime or ever-syndicated “Hogan’s Heroes”, were not compelling. Sometimes depressing can be a motivator.

As I walked into the gym, a guy wearing a school-bus-colored thong tank worked his triceps. His back was fully inked as were his arms. He turned to reveal a work in progress as pectoral tats reached toward his neck. I looked away, not based on a fear of being knifed—indeed, you can’t hide weaponry in a thong tank. I turned because that’s what you do when you see a train wreck.

Moments later, I peeked. (Another train wreck behavior.) I saw his face and it registered that this was a guy I lusted over only a year ago. Best looking man at the gym. Back then, he’d had a tattoo on each of upper arms that he flashed when he wore regular tank tops. I actually liked the designs he’d chosen, but I appreciated how his perfect biceps weren’t covered. I’d tried repeatedly to make eye contact with the guy but never succeeded. And now here was this “new, improved” version of the man. All sex appeal gone. At least to this beholder, he was utterly ruined.

What do you think? Do you prefer old David or new David, old Adam or new Adam? How about Ricky Martin? I know many guys like tattoos, but is there a point when it becomes excessive? What is the turning point? How does someone with a fondness for ink know when to say when?

TO LIVE & DYE IN L.A.

Justin Hartley: It starts with hair envy.

As long as I’m in L.A., dear reader, allow me the frivolity. This is yet another post about hair. And I’m guessing many of you will indulge me since my most-read post remains Highlights of Summer. I’d like to think it has something to do with the way I turned a phrase or how other middle-aged men secretly want to go blond but then check themselves. Let me be the spectacle.

Alas, I can only deceive myself so much. I am certain the post’s popularity has to do with this hot guy whose image I pasted. (Sadly, my second most popular post is all about another hot man with more of an appeal to news junkies and/or giggle aficionados. Makes me wonder if I should give up writing and just post Google Images of himbos. But then there are plenty of blogs that do that.)

Back to me. And my hair. In getting ready for L.A., I planned things out so that I had an appointment for a cut and highlights one hour after I finished work and began summer vacation. Shedding the duller, more conservative school principal look is essential for me to feel a Southern Californian vibe. As I’ve mentioned before, blond highlights used to come naturally from days on the beach and by the pool. But I’ve paid the price for that with skin cancer procedures—no new surgical removals in over a decade, thank goodness—and now I have to fake it.

What I hoped for...

I’d been seeing Angie as my stylist for six months and she was competent if not a hair genie. I showed her some post-highlight photos from my past as I detected a lack of confidence when I made the booking. Perhaps I should have looked for another hairdresser but it takes time for me to build trust. Finding the right stylist can be an exhausting endeavor.

The first indication that something was awry came as Angie rinsed the gunk. “I’m just going to apply a glaze to even things out,” she said. Logical interpretation: Things are out of whack!

Fleeing was an urge, but not an option. Pinned against an uncomfortable reclining chair, head dangling over an industrial sink, I did my best to channel pro-glaze energy.

Back in front of the mirror, I got my first glimpse. Yes, there was blond in the center but the sides seemed to have an orange hue. Could it be the lighting? I kept calm and subtly pivoted my head. Clearly orange.

I eyed at Angie’s thick, curly mane. Orange. We weren’t exactly twinsies but I had a patch match. I wanted to ask, “What color is your hair?” Could a stylist be colorblind? Isn’t that an occupational disability?

And then came a stream of utterances that served as confirmation that something had gone terribly wrong: “Are you coming back into Vancouver before you head to L.A.?”; “I can try to fix this.”; and the succinct, “I’m so sorry.”

The in-my-head responses: “No.”; “No!”; and “NOOO!”

What I got.

Generally, I believe in allowing a person to right a wrong. But not when it involves orangutan clumps on my head. I politely paid and exited. On the ferry ride home, I stayed within the shelter of my car.

A glance in the mirror at home confirmed that things were as bad as they seemed. I knew I needed expert advice so I emailed Ellie in Los Angeles. “Who does your highlights? Can you get me in?”

The replay was instant. “I have the BEST highlight person in LA. Danny at Byron's. Expensive but worth it.”  

I read it and reread it. It served as an adult soothie. Yes, it will get better.

A follow-up email told me that Danny was vacationing in Greece, but Ellie had got me in on his first day back. This met with a mixed reaction. I’d have to go a full two weeks with the hair quilt, but surely a stylist who has ritzy vacations must be doing something right. And then,...why did he have an opening on his first day back? Did I want to surrender my hair to someone with jetlag? Still, I put my trust in Ellie. She has always had impeccable style. And hair.

During the fortnight preceding the corrective action, I imagined myself as a defiant Goth teen with a weighty nose earring, theatrical corpse makeup and a pitbull named Mo. (Hoover didn’t once respond to his substitute moniker.) Still the persona allowed me to wander in public, ignoring any and all gasps of horror. (In truth, I didn’t hear a single gasp. Guess I had the Goth attitude down.)

On the eve of my appointment, I Googled the salon. Beverly Hills. Uh,...how expensive? Partial highlights, $230; full highlights, $300. And, finally, a gasp. Eating is overrated.

At the salon, an attractive receptionist told me to have a seat and I pretended to read my novel while nervously anticipating treatment. Some people get nervous before job interviews or blind dates; my worries are triggered while waiting to meet a new stylist. Call it hair anxiety.

Danny emerged and I immediately babbled on about my follicular nightmare. I’m not sure he believed it was a salon job. Several times, he asked, “Who did this?” His facial reaction was the most honest I’d seen—an understated version of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”—, but then again, I’d let down my Goth guard.

The color realignment took two hours, beginning with an orange purge and then starting anew. Ellie happened to be in the salon as well and I watched from the mirror to see four assistants gathered around her to witness every brush stroke and snip. I only warranted one assistant even though I was the bigger spectacle. I’m guessing everyone concluded that apparent home dye job fixes are a rarity in a chi-chi Beverly Hills salon.

Not much of a talker—at least to a one-time client like me—Danny politely gave me a rundown of his experiences in Prague, Berlin and on Mykonos. No doubt, he was wishing he’d never left the island.

Danny’s assistant regularly filled in as a succession of blonde women in the salon hugged and kissed Danny, each one gushing about how great he looked. And I felt the pangs of job envy. What I wouldn’t give for an insincere compliment—though, to be fair, he really did look great. Perhaps if I worked there as a stylist, I’d just receive standoffish parade waves. Even with the orangutan tamed and taken away, I don’t improve in hotness just from wielding a pair of scissors. Highlights—even good ones—can only do so much.

In the end, the blond was less than I’d wanted, but I’d seen what happens when I ask for too much.

Before tipping, the bill came to $150. Not a snip, just a color repair. A bargain from what I’d seen on the website. The fee was not an issue at all. To have my smile back was totally worth it.

ROUTINELY GAY

Is there a gay way to open a bottle of ketchup? A gay way to fill the gas tank? Wipe down the kitchen counters? I suppose I could hum a Barbra Streisand song, but “The Way He Makes Me Feel” isn’t all that hummable. It’s a song for the shower.

I haven’t posted anything of late because nothing gay has come my way. I haven’t had a disappointing coffee date with someone whose destiny is to be featured on a future episode of “What Not to Wear”. I’ve overheard no one telling inappropriate gay jokes in line at one the local Safeway. And I didn’t tune in to watch Ricky Martin’s appearance on “Glee”. (Confession: I did YouTube a clip. Am I the only one who thinks our beautiful Ricky got a little carried away at the tattoo parlor? Note that “Ink it like Beckham” is not a catchphrase that has caught on.)

Sometimes life just goes on: timesuckingferrycommuteemotiondrainingworkchaostootiredtoprocesstelevisionsitcoms.

I don’t ogle at anyone in the thrice daily Starbucks line. No, I only curse (silently) all the humans standing between me and my next caffeine hit. When did it become acceptable to process $2.18 grande coffees with credit cards? And the too chatty barista? I only wish he’d shave his scruffy eyesore of a beard. (Yes, I get cranky when going through withdrawal.)

I don’t try to outrun fit guys in unitards on the treadmill beside me at the gym. In fact, there are no unitards at my gym. (That’s a good thing.) I only hit the gym on weekends. And I opt for the exercise bike instead. It’s so much more conducive to allowing me to read Writer’s Digest or, ahem, Entertainment Weekly. (What?! I can’t possibly relate to the gym’s reading options: Marie Claire or fitness rags with overtanned, oiled up, steroid-injected cover boys.)

I don’t even hit Home Depot to ponder home improvement projects. In truth, my own DIY possibilities involve gallons of paint and I’m not very motivated to freshen up the third bedroom. I never go in there anyway.

It’s not like I’ve lost my gayness. It’s just in screen saver mode. Waiting for a user. A browser will do. Still here. Not disgruntled (except during aforementioned caffeine deficits), not overjoyed. Quietly existing.

Madonna’s new CD comes out soon, doesn’t it?

What time does Anderson Cooper’s talk show air?

Maybe I should YouTube old Ricky Martin videos. Pre tattoos. Pre-“She Bangs”.

Highlights of Summer

I am trying to convince myself that highlighting my hair is not a gay cliché. Doesn’t David Beckham go for the blond streaks?

Okay, I cannot put myself in the same league..for anything. (Gotta admit, I think he overdid it on the tattoos.) I see teens and twentysomething guys playing with their hair color all the time. It’s a hip thing to do.

Of course, I’m a fortysomething and I don’t wear hipness convincingly. The dye has been cast. I now have my own streaks of blond.

Two decades ago, the blond would have appeared naturally as I lifeguarded and spent countless hours outdoors in the midday summer sun. Melanoma changed that for me ten years ago. No more sun. I’ve got the scars to remind me that pasty white is my permanent skin tone from now on. Still, I missed being a bit blonder—and, let’s face it, being a bit less gray. (My hairstylist mistook some gray for blond so I can’t complain. And I still have all my hair, another windfall!)

I did get highlights one other time, many years ago. Probably right after the melanoma. I needed a pick-me-up after sitting in the waiting room of a skin cancer institute, thirty-five years younger than all the other patients. I was so worried that my dye job would overly feminize me, as if my voice and my mannerisms were textbook he-man. Anyway, I asked for the dye job to be subtle. It turned out to be so subtle that no one (other than my partner at the time) noticed.

This time I was (slightly) more daring. As I read an older issue of Rolling Stone—hey, that Adam Lambert* guy is gay! At least little “Idol” girls still have Seacrest*--while the product bleached clumps of hair, I fretted over the reveal. Egad! What if it’s Pamela Anderson platinum? Or Anderson Cooper white? (Cooper white is fine if you’ve got the piercing blue eyes and Ivory skin. Hmm, no and no.)

My stylist did a spot-check after a half hour and announced it was “still too yellow”. She walked away and chatted at length to another idle stylist and the new gay receptionist with the lovely (South African?) accent. Another tangent: there’s a new gay in town! Turns out his partner is the gay guy at the bakery. That makes it official. Yes, I am the only single gay in the community.

I worried that the conversation was distracting my stylist. If the dye stayed on too long, what color would my hair become? Would magenta work with my green eyes? Fortunately, it all worked out. I didn’t trust the mirrors in the salon so I rushed home and verified the look in each mirror.

The highlights are apparent but “natural”, recalling years past. Do I look younger and kissed by summer? That was the goal.

Maybe I really am a clichéd, old gay fart, but this cliché feels fresh. Good enough.

*Dyes/highlights his hair.