So long, Mr. Long-Hair

Around 2:15 this afternoon a hair stylist parted the brown sea of my locks into two ponytails, tied rubberbands, and snip, snip. My contribution to locks of love came to a 24 inch donation. That's enough to make two wigs for girl, kid cancer patients. The stylist laid the two ponytails on her counter in a gently. I thought the two strands looked like two dead squirrels.

Now, I was the only straight guy in this salon and this was the first time I'd ever been to a real salon. A friend recommended this stylist who is her trusted stylist. Whether you're a chick or a dude, a major haircut means a major appearance overhaul, so you don't want some dude named Wayne who only knows how to give buzz, military cuts lopping at your locks unless you want a high-and-tight or flat-top or want to look like a neo-nazi. I just didn't want to fifteen or trendy or metrosexual. This was explained to said sytlist who listened, offered advice, and helped me through the options of which the aforementioned Wayne wouldn't give a fuck about because he's got his own idea of what a man's haircut should look like and that haircut is typically not very different than his own.

So there I was looking at the two dead squirrels of my hair splayed on the stylist's counter when I became aware that this cut, this straight man getting a cut, this only straight man in the joint had gained the full attention of the lady folk and gay folk alike. I felt relatively self-conscious. I was the lone water buffalo separated from the herd with lady lions watching from the brush. No. I was the lone snow-leopard at the pound surrounded by black labs. No. I was the guy who was off to get his now chin-length hair washed with a different stylist mouthing these words to nodding client, "That's a shit load of hair."

After the wash, the stylist and I returned to the chair. She razored. She clipped. She asked questions. I talked. Bing. Bang. Boom.

At the end of the cut a different, neighbor stylist said, "That looks really good."

I said, "Thanks."

The stylist, who I am convinced is the most boss chick stylist in the world, asked if everything looked right.

The cut is a classic one. I don't look fifteen. She figured out how I can keep my facial hair and have short hair and not look like a freak who likes to offer candy to little boys. I don't look like a metrosexual and I don't look trendy. I gave the stylist a whoop-ass tip.

When all was said and done the stylist asked me if I would like to send in the hair to locks of love because some people like to get the card that the foundation gives to donors. I said, "Naww. I know I did it. That's good enough for me."

That sounds noble. The truth: I'd forget to send the hair. The foundation would be luck if they got the hair by July if they got it at all.