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.

WHAT ARE THE RIGHT PLACES?

In my last post, I bemoaned my perennial single status and worried about the recent coffee date trend whereby I chat at length to another presumably single soul and yet never feel the slightest physical attraction. How can that be?! Am I too picky? Do I need a dating moratorium?  Do I need to invest in a pair of rose-colored glasses? And, if so, why can’t I find them on eBay?

On Twitter, one well-meaning fellow suggested, “You’re just looking in the wrong places.” Though unintended, the comment sounded like something my mother would say—if, that is, my mother dared even engage in the topic of my (non) dating life. (She still frets over the notion that Dating = Sex = AIDS = Death despite my father the doctor’s robotic response, rambling on about safe sex.)

Looking in the wrong places. The comment did cause me to YouTube this catchy song from my days living in Texas, but otherwise it comes off as wholly unhelpful. I wondered if the Tweep (Twerp?) noticed my blog name, which also happens to be my moniker on Twitter:  Rural Gay. Let me restate it:  RURAL Gay.

Where exactly are the right places?!

Admittedly, I may be stretching the notion of rural. There are houses on either side of me. There are houses across the street. I live on a cul-de-sac, something that probably does not exist in truly rural areas unless a farmer creates one as a convenient means of turning horse trailers around. (There are horses in the area, but they are a five-minute bike ride away.) To be more accurate, I live in a hamlet where there are no local services or shops other than a small elementary school. I suppose I could change the blog to Hamlet Gay, but the word always makes me think alternately of Shakespeare and that McDonald’s kid-marketing creation, the Hamburglar. (Am I the only one who ever wondered if Ronald McDonald and the Hamburglar were a couple? Why are there no women characters?)

Myself excepted, single gay men do not move to hamlets that are a forty-minute ferry ride away from civilization. I am certain I am the only such fool.

Technically, there is a civilization that does not require a boat ride and a good chunk of change. There are two towns on the eighty-kilometer stretch of coastline linked by one winding roadway and bookended by ferry routes on either end. Again, single gay men do not appear anywhere along the route. There are lesbians aplenty and a few gay couples. I am a category unto myself.

So that’s the predicament. Based on where I live, there are no right places.

Every place is the wrong place.

Online dating is the one avenue I have to try to connect. My profile indicates I live in Vancouver. It is my one deceptive statement. By the second message, I make it clear that I am Vancouver-adjacent, at least when one pulls far, far back on a Google map. The hope is that my photos and my charm will interest another desperately single individual enough to consider meeting me for coffee. I always make the trek into the city. On those rare occasions when things progress to a third or fourth date, some guys have been known to venture my way.

Sadly, my last third or fourth date happened eons ago.

If Plenty of Fish is the wrong place, my only other options seem to be other online sites. I’ve tried match.com which turned out to be an even smaller pool of unwanteds. I even tried gay.com but I don’t know how to choose a potential date based on photos of asses and penises in various stages of arousal. It seems POF is best amongst a series of apparently wrong places.

Perhaps I need to take a bigger leap of faith. Maybe I should consider a new website. Here I come, Travelocity! What is the cheapest airfare to New York City? I have a certain attraction to one particular gay man who is apparently single. If I can woo him before he secures a restraining order, my life might change for the better.

Fingers crossed.

Then someone else can have that elusive pair of rose-colored glasses. I’ll happily lie in the arms of my guy, listening to him giggle with abandon.

Until then, I’ll have to make the best of all the wrong places.

 

UPDATE: Oh, the despair! According to Wikipedia, my dear Coop has a partner by the name of Benjamin Maisani. Who am I to stalk--from a respectful distance--now?!

WELCOME TO CRUSH MONTH

I’ve written about crushes before, some very personal, hitting me every time I stopped in at the local coffeehouse or at the gym, others invading my living room courtesy of live telecasts from Atlanta.  (And on that note, sadly, I’m still waiting.)

A song at a Barbra Streisand concert and a random reference to Laverne & Shirley’s Carmine got me thinking about crushes again.  In the moment, they can feel thrilling (the ones in daily life) or titillating (those of the celebrity kind).  Of course, they are simultaneously tortuous.  Why doesn’t he notice me?  Why can’t I find a guy like that?

 I can’t think of a single crush that ever amounted to anything.  Maybe I have some sort of internal Crush Protector that keeps these hotties at bay.  Still, I find great amusement in looking back.  With enough time and space between then and now, my recollection typically comes down to a chuckle and a common thought:  What was I thinking? 

With all possibilities of inching toward my next broken heart on hold due to a broken foot, I need a focus...or a distraction, at least, from my dependency on crutches.  Bring on the memories of unrequited love (and lust).  Crank up that old tune by The Jets. For the month of March, the blog posts will be about crushes. 

Frivolous?  Sure.  Hopefully, however, the reads will be fun and will help you remember your own exciting, agonizing and silly crush moments.  I’ll reveal why I temporarily switched diet sodas, highlight overwrought songs that I linked to my garçon du jour and finally bid adieu to some questionable celebrity crushes with the help of current Google Images.  For starters, bye bye to Be Mine, Carmine.  

Oy! Indeed, what was I thinking?!

DOWN BOY: KEEPING THE BLOG AT BAY

I blame the blog.

When you create a blog focused on a crazy decision to live as a single gay man where there are no other single gay men, it can be a constant reminder of a part of life that’s not working. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen.  When I moved from Vancouver seven years ago, I wanted to step off the treadmill.  I felt like I was putting in a lot of work and getting nowhere.  I was tired of wasting time idling at traffic lights.  I longed for a night’s sleep, uninterrupted by sirens. 

Hindsight is a humbling thing.  I don’t yearn for the sound of sirens, but my move may have been extreme.  Perhaps the answer wasn’t going from the city to nowhere; perhaps I was just supposed to try another city.  Victoria?  Toronto?  Ottawa? 

I know now that I was not alone in feeling alone in Vancouver.  A month ago, the Vancouver Sun ran a series on how disconnected residents are.  They don’t reach out to one another.  They don’t even nod or say hello in passing.

To hammer home the point, the newspaper published a story two weeks ago about the struggles of singles in the city.  The focus was on single straight women, but I took liberties to apply their woes to single gay men.  I certainly don’t see any evidence to the contrary.

So I got things half right in leaving Vancouver.  I’m not a big baseball fan, but I know a 0.500 batting average is a marvel.  As for life changes, it adds up to nothing.

The pessimist in me grew out of adolescence when I learned that I was a pimply faced, athletically challenged loner whose best friend was a pop radio station on an AM radio in Hamilton, Ontario.  The pimples and pessimism multiplied when the family moved to Texas, with me perfecting teen disconnect on the drive down in the family van.  I pulled away from family, but struggled to find another place to attach.

I found good friends on a swim team in high school.  We were basically Sweathogs in Speedos, a frightful sight.  I was two years younger than my peers and never figured out the East Texas dating scene with class rings, Friday night corsages and, well, boys dating girls.

The pessimist in me could see the future:  I’d be alone for life, like my great-uncle in Ottawa, whose sexuality was never discussed.  I could pass time cementing my knowledge of Billboard music trivia and experimenting with ways to spice up Kraft Dinner for one.  (Oh, to get my hands on what the Barenaked Ladies referred to as “all the fanciest Dijon ketchup”!)

Seeing “Moonstruck” in 1987 proved a game changer.  No, I did not develop a completely unwarranted crush on Nicolas Cage.  Or Danny Aiello.  While part of me identified with Cher’s grandfather, walking around on his own with a pack of dogs on leash, one scene with Cher hit me then as it still does when pessimism tries to take control.

“Snap out of it!”

I love how she slaps the mopey Cage across the face.  It’s the kind of gumption one would expect if the outstanding Olympia Dukakis really were your mother.

And that—along with a song from a 1986 animated mousemovie—is when hope clawed its way back into my life.  Hope’s a tricky thing.  It can be a taunting mirage, that out of reach oasis in the desert.  I see it at the gym, not in any of the grunters who talk of deer hunts and drunken Tuesday nights, but on the muted TV screen as a nicely dressed, well coifed political analyst or author gets forty seconds of glory on CTV News.  Intelligent, decent looking, knows how to dress (or at least take advice from a producer),...my kind of man.  All playful nods to my favorite newscaster aside, it’s not the “star” factor.  I just crave conversation with a well-rounded man who happens to glance in the mirror before heading out for the day.  There’s a difference between vanity and a healthy self-regard.

Yes, I do know that figures on the TV screen, even those many rungs below dear Anderson, are not attainable.  However, they present a look, a standard.  Unfortunately, my present life doesn’t present any such men in the flesh. 

It would be nice to put my thoughts completely on hold while my life remains on hold.  And yet, the blog hovers over me.  Post something.  But what?  Got the “rural” thing down.  Nothing new on the “gay” front.  There’s no real pressure.  I only post when I feel I have something to say.  But just checking in a couple of times a week—“Anything to write today?”—can be haunting enough.  Yes, Fievel, I still hear you.  But “Somewhere” can seem so far away.

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.