As Darth Vader would say, "Noooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Okay, here’s the second part of the story, which isn’t nearly as good as the first part, mainly because it’s late and I drank half a bottle of wine while catching up on my Buffy episodes on Tivo. And away we go….

If the decision was to get my hair styled, the obvious question would be where? After all, there’s a thousand stylists in the naked city but where to go? It’s not like I’ve been in the loop on good salons to go to. And it’s not like I’m the kind of guy who would go up to another guy and say "hey, I like you’re hair. Where did you get it cut?" So, I did what anyone else would do in a situation like this- I went to Citysearch and looked it up online.

After fiddling around for a few minutes, I found a place. It looked cheap, had a good score, and was in the Castro. Because if you’re going to get a hair cut, you might as well go to the Castro. Where else would you go? It’s like if you want to drink good beer, you go to Belgium. Or if you want good chocolate, you go to Hershey’s. So I called and made an appointment.

I have to say however, that calling to make an appointment was not the easiest thing I’ve ever done. In fact, it was kind of scary. I don’t go to places that schedule appointments. Or with places that charge over $15 for a haircut. And while going to the Castro to get a haircut might make sense, it’s a little scary. It’s the Castro after all. I might want to get a bit Queer Eye with my haircut, but not that much Queer Eye. Getting a new haircut is kind of scary cause you never know if it’s going to work, let alone if it’s any good, until it’s done. It could look great in a book or when they’re cutting it, but as soon as you go home, ruh-oh. What if they cut too much off? What if they give me highlights? What if they give me a faux-hawk? What if they gel my hair? Once the hair is cut, there's no turning back.


When I got there, it was pretty much what I expected. It was tastefully done in the interior and all the stylists were either gay or crazily coiffed. As I looked around at not only the stylists but all the clientiele, then looked at my completely unruly hair, made much unrulier by your typical San Francisco wind, I wondered what everyone thought when I walked in. Like were they standing there going "Oh my God?" Did the stylist who would eventually have to cut my hair mutter a curse under her breath? Or did she think that my makeover would be so extreme she might as well call ABC to come over and film it for Extreme Makeover?

Finally, about half an hour after I got there and about twenty minutes past my scheduled appointment, the stylist who would eventually be my stylist finished up her previous appontment and came to get me. The stylist was a big girl, wearing leather pants, shoes with about a six inch platforms, and a died pink dreadlocked mohawk cut. Oh, this was such a good idea. When she introduced herself she handed me out a form to fill out, partly asking where I found out about the place, partly to ask me about my hair. What kind of barber makes you fill out a form? Is there a database that the info gets entered into? I fill it out as best as possible but stumble upon the question "what do you not like about your hair." Who likes their hair? Seriously. It’s one of the biggest existential questions out there- what do you not like about your hair? I took a writing class once and that question was used as a prompt and fifteen minutes later the entire class had about a page worth of kvetches about their hair. Nobody likes their hair.

I fill out the form, hand it on in, and go sit down. She then proceeds to ask me what I want with my hair. Like I know. I tell her the usual specific answer- I wanted it kind of shortened, kind of trimmed, but not too much and just make it nice. Which was the truth- I wanted to spice things up and wanted to keep things kind of long, but I had no idea what I wanted and wasn’t even sure anything could be done with my hair. She then asks me a bunch of questions about my hair, like how often I shampoo and what kind of shampoo I use and I notice that for pretty much every answer I give, she tells me I shouldn’t be doing like that and need to do something else instead. Who knew? And great- I’m totally failing hair style.

The cut begins and at this point, I am freaking, a total stress case. Luckily, however, the cut starts off with a shampoo and if there’s anything that can relax somebody, it’s having their head pulled back into a sink and having warm water run through their hair while somebody brushes it. Seriously. A couple of seconds into the shampoo, I start relaxing, getting into it. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Shampoo over, my stylist starts cutting away. She suggests a couple of shampoos I should use, rocks out to the 80’s music being blasted on the stereo, and I get into the groove of it all. After about twenty minutes, the cut is done. Now it’s just fixing things up. She pulls out a flobee looking contraption and blows off my still wet hair and then reaches towards the shelf to pull out a gob of styling gell. Now, I never use gell. Never ever. I hate how it feels, I hate having to put it in, and I have the whole artificiality of it. But what can I do? She lathers up, tells me how to do it, then slops it all over my hair and tells me I shouldn’t touch anything with a comb, especially once my hair dries.

And with that, my cut is done. She pulls out a mirror to show it to me and, well, I looked awful. I looked, well, I don’t even know how to describe it. My hair was partly curly, partly spiky, and partly lumpy. But of course, she’s sitting there holding the mirror and asking for my opinion, probably feeling all proud of herself for bringing order to the disorder of my hair and because I’m a nice guy, I naturally tell her it looks great. Cause I hate when they ask for your opinion on your hair when it’s done. Like anyone’s going to say "Jesus frickin’ Christ, I look like a poodle." I tell her it looks great, pay her off, buy some supplies (why not?) and head home. Completely and totally terrified that I’d run into somebody I know. I was supposed to maybe meet a friend at the Union Street Fair after the haircut but I told him it would depend on the cut. If it was good, I’d go out. If it was bad, I’d stay at home and hide. I was going to hide.

Funny thing about the cut, though- by the time I got home and it completely dried, it didn’t look half bad. It was a little curly, a little spiky, kind of like Justin Timberlake’s public hair look Definitely not me, but still kind of styling. And so I thought, hey I can do this. I can look like this. I’ll just follow my instructions and even hit the gel. I can be Queer Eye.

But then it hit me. I’m about to be 37. That’s kind of old. Way too old to be changing your look every two or three months. That’s what being a teenager is for. I mean, rock stars do it all the time but I’m not a rock star (well, in my own mind, I am, but that’s only in my mind). In fact, when it came down to it, I wanted to be normal again. My own normal, schlubby, frumpy self. Which in a way, is what doing makeovers teaches you, that all in all is all we are. Or something like that. But then, I did look good. And I was going to a party that night. So I decided to leave it as is for the night, to go out looking like an overweight, Jewish Justin Timberlake. Cause it’ll be fun. Like wearing a wig or a costume or something and for one night, one more night, be something I’m not.

And how well did it work? Once again, no girls would talk to me.

Long story short, everything is as it as was- my hair is short. Not spiky, not long, not nearly that curly. Just is how it is always is. But now I know that if I ever feel like living it up, I’m just some hair gel away from changing it all.