I Love You
I have great hair. I’m mostly indifferent about my appearance – not because I think it’s particularly ugly or beautiful in one direction or the other, but because mostly, I’m not appearance-driven. I look fine most days, and am lazy as all get out when it comes to actually doing anything about what I look like. I would *so* rather sleep than put on eye makeup. Or any make up for that matter, and as a result, I don’t usually wear it. And really, I look okay. Not great, but okay.
ButI take my time with my hair. And damn, I have great hair. And I know bad hair more than you can possibly imagine.
I cannot take credit for this fabulous hair. I have the best hairdresser I’ve ever had here in this sleepy little town, and GOD, if that isn’t worth its weight in alligators, I don’t know what is. He came recommended by my mother-in-law, she of strawlike, white-blond Carmela Soprano hair, but her recommendation was spot-on. Squiggy is amazing. But next week, I’m getting my haircut, and I am dreading it like I’m getting a colonoscopy, which is so unlike me. I love having my hair cut and colored, but GAH, I don’t want to go to see him.
Squiggy is a gay hairdresser in the most stereotypically, Birdcage-esque way you could possibly imagine, which I find totally endearing. In his mid-50s, I’ve never seen him wear anything but black polyester cut to the navel, and he sports a pompadour in an earnest, un-ironic way, along with a handlebar moustache. He’s been married to John, the cutest little salon receptionist you’d ever meet, for 25 years, and he’s nice, if a little justifiably arrogant (“I am the best hairdresser in the entire state.”), but gawd, I dread going there.
He overshares. And people, you KNOW I overshare. It’s not the oversharing that kills me. It’s the drama. The neverending DRAMA! And stories for shock value! And talk of bodily fluids and parts! And penises! And vaginas! And the neverending use of the word ‘cock!’ And pychic episodes! that I can’t handle. I might add that he does not do this to my mother-in-law. This behavior is, apparently, saved special for me. Let’s examine some examples:
- The first time I met him he asked me the question, “If you could be or do anything with your life, what would you do?” When I answered that of course, I’d be a writer, he seemed crushed, as apparently I should have loftier goals like his, as he would spend his life healing people through the power of “psychic movement.” He then proceeded to explain to me – in excruciating detail, full of pregnant pauses, how his sole mission in life is to read minds – which he is quite adept at – and “take pain away from people.” He paused to get on one knee and cry no fewer than three times during the course of this conversation, like a strange, possessed Elvis impersonator sans white sequin jumpsuit. I had to help him up on the third try, as his knee gave out, and he fell, near-weeping, into my arms.
- At the end of our first meeting, he explained to me how he knew we were ‘destined’ to be together, and that he loved me already. I thought that ‘love’ was used the same way I say, “I love that sweater on you!” but I think maybe I was wrong. I’m still not sure. He then proceeded to kiss me on the mouth, hug me dangerously closely, and then kiss me again, three more times. Because I am an idiot, and also, had the best hair of my entire life, I just stood there, helpless.
- Once, during a conversation about the somewhat recent death of his mother, he had to walk away, mid-haircut, to ‘collect himself,’ as he was too overwhelmed to continue and my GOD, he didn’t want to mess up my hair. Twenty minutes later, panicked, I found him in the fetal position on the floor next to a stack of White Sand hair product, rocking back and forth and heaving with sobs. After I plucked him off the floor, he told me, yet again, that he loved me, and he ever had to, he would ‘take my pain away.’ He said this in the most oddly ominous tone you can imagine, and seriously, I was a little scared, but not really. I mean, he weighs 11 pounds and has a pompadour. Not exactly serious material.
- On a happier day, we started chatting about some of the oddest things clients had done/said/gifted him with. He proceeded to describe, in excruciating detail, the number of lonely, male, married clients who had presented their penises to him in manner of surrender, and demanded that they be serviced as part of the hair cut and color right then and there. This alone would be amusing, were it not for the extreme detail of said penises (the word ‘veiney’ came up), and the perpetual use of the word ‘cock,’ which, as you know, I hate, and the terrifying hand gestures and pelvic thrusts. One pelvic thrust actually tossed the entire bowl of my hair color to the floor, splattering us all with Goldwell Level 7 lightener. He then started weeping – WEEPING – an apology and showered my foiled head with kisses.
I called him today to find out when my appointment is because I can’t read my own handwriting. He called me back and left me such a heartfelt message that Adam was torn between laughter and concern when he listened to it.
“DARLING! Oh, I missed you. I mean, I really, really missed you. I’m so glad you’re coming in next week – June 7, darling, at 7 p.m. for a cut and foil. I can’t wait to see you. I love you very, very much! SO MUCH! I HAVE SO MUCH TO TELL YOU!!! *smooch smooch smooch smooch smooch*”
Yes, I’m dreading my appointment next week. But sadly, the great hair is all worth it.
If he touches my mother, I shall destroy him with Nylabones* and alien-eye laser beams!
*Or, as Kris observantly noted, Booda Velvets!
**Sarah McLachlan.
15 comments May 31st, 2006