Hair Raising Crisis

October 3, 2003

My hands gripped the door handle to the salon, as my head sank. I knew the door was locked, but I tugged anyway. It was 6 p.m. My appointment was at 6 p.m., but no one was there. The doors, locked. The lights turned off. Done. Gone for the day. With a solid two months of hair growth and less than 24 hours until my flight lifted off the ground, shuttling me to my ten-year college reunion, a locked salon with no hair care professional in sight was not the look I was going for.

As I walked to my car, I realized I was thrust right into the middle of a hair-raising crisis, and I wasn't sure how I was going to get out of it. I needed someone who does hair to do me, right then. After all, it was my 10-year college reunion. While I wasn't expecting to meet anyone important, I was still concerned. The fact is the important ones simply wouldn't care what my hair looks like. They've all seen it at its worst before at one time or another. For some of them, I lived with their bad gas for a year. They certainly could tolerate bad hair. However, as I sat gripping my steering wheel, I realized it's the unimportant ones that I, for some reason, feel the compelling need to go out of my way to impress. Waltzing into some place with "Chop and Drop" hanging above the door simple was not an option.

I reached for my cell phone, took a deep breath, held my head high, and pressed 9, holding it down, activating the Emergency Queer Reserve network.

"This is Dan."

"Hey. It's me."

"What's up?"

"Umm. I have an emergency. I need to activate the Emergency Queer Reserve."

"Okay. I'm not sure what I can do on the other side of the country. We're on the 405 stuck in traffic right now."

"My hair appointment." I couldn't even speak in complete sentences. I took a deep breath and choked back the tears. "It was at six, but now he's not here. Closed. Gone."

"Go to the Mecca. I'll call you right back." He hung up before I could say another word. I had said all I needed to say; the E.Q.R. was in action. I headed towards Mecca-Midtown Atlanta, epicenter of Atlanta's gay community, and zip code with the highest number of hairdressers per capita in all of Georgia.

As I made my way to the freeway to battle major-league baseball playoff traffic, Dan was working behind the scenes. Later, I would come to find out he hung up to hit on his cell phone the speed dial for Helmet Hairworx, a Midtown salon. By the time I was merging with stop-and-go traffic, my phone rang again. I looked at the screen as "V.I.P. Princess" flashed across the screen.

"What's happening?" I said, awaiting my instructions.

"Well, I had to call in a few favors, but if you head there now, they will work you in. The place is called Helmet, at Tenth and Piedmont. Now, when you get there, ask for Moe."

"Moe?"

"Yes, Moe."

"Moe's a Mo's man?"

"Yes. He will take good care of you."

"So trust him?"

"Yes, trust him completely. He will take care of you."

"Okay. Thank you. I'll be in touch."

"Please do."

I hung up, having moved only a car length on the freeway, hit the break, and put the car in park.

Sitting in traffic, I thought of my goals and objectives. I wasn't looking for just a chop. I was looking for a complete make-over. A reinvention of hair presentation. I needed something that was honoring of an increasingly non-existent hairline, and at the same time, creates the illusion of weight loss. To accomplish this, I needed a professional who could guide me and instruct me.

I come from a genetic lineage where our heads, as we age, have a propensity to become more round. More globe-like. If you want to know about the long-term effects of the Midwestern Meatloaf, simply look at my family tree. Combine that with high blood pressure, and you have a history of family portraits where the smiling faces look like ticking time bombs ready to explode. The Fisher Price toys, with the people figures that have the perfectly-shaped spheres, I'm sure, were inspired by someone I'm connected to. Stopped on Georgia 400, I'm convinced it's not a coincidence the male figures never had any hair. And the women figures had hips, but I probably shouldn't go there if I still want a Christmas gift.

For years now, I've realized my hairline is outperforming the stock market as it continues to rise at an increasing pace. And for years now, I've been looking for role models to inspire me ­ attractive men embracing the transition from flowing locks to a hairless existence. I've come to realize these men, secure in their aging, simply do not exist. Take the People challenge: pick up any issue of People magazine. You'll find all models have full heads of hair or they're bald ­ completely shaved. There is no such thing as in-between. Unless you're the director of a computer lab, and in that case, the pocket protector draws the eye away from your foreboding forehead.

Thirty-five minutes after receiving E.Q.R. instruction, I walked into Helmet. "Ummm, you must be Tim," said the little man behind the desk as he looked at the obvious thinning mop on my head. I wondered if Dan told him to take care of my sideburns, which he hates so much. Tie me down if they have too. "We were of the impression you were coming right away."

"Yeah, right away from Buckhead on a night when there is a ball game, a show at the Fox."

"Well," he said, looking down at his appointment book. "Moe had appointments, and we tried to wait, but we had to move on. So we're going to have to give you to Lee. But Lee is busy right now, so you're gonna have to wait."

"That's fine. It's a bit of an emergency," I said.

"Yes," he said, with a disapproving tone as he looked over the tip of his nose. "That's what Dan said." It was quiet, so I turned to sit down and wait.

Hairdressers and I don't have a very good history. I've been in Atlanta for eight years and have gone through eight hairdressers. Some of them, like Charles, my first one in Atlanta, who cut my hair in his salon at the back of an antique store while giving me a lesson on the art or restoring a Barbie Doll, simply have died on me. Others, like Don, number six, simply blew off my appointment too many times. Others, like Larry (four) or Ken (two), simply quite to become lawn care professionals or moved away.

When I was in college, a group of us went to go see the Oprah Show. We studied the headlines and read the newspaper from front to back page for two weeks in a row. We had strategy sessions where we discussed the proper colors for us to wear on national TV, and quizzed each other on current topics. We wanted to look good, and sound good. You can imagine our disappointment when we got seated in the studio and the producer welcomed us to the day's taping of "Hairdresser Horror Stories."

That was twelve years ago. Today, when I sit down in a salon chair, my connection to Chicago eventually comes up. "Oh," says my new hairdresser. "I've always wanted to go to Chicago to see Oprah."

"I've been before. It's a good show."

"You have? Oh, tell me, which show did you go see?"

"Hairdresser Horror Stories."

"Ohmahgawd! Really? Oh, that is one of my ALL TIME Favorites." In their excitement, the scissors start flying around, and I have to turn my head to avoid my eye being poked out or my ear cut off.

"Oh?" I'll ask.

"Yeah. I've got that on video. I watch it all the time. I love it. Is this short enough in back?"

"Umm, maybe a little shorter?"

"Yeah, I just love that show." Sigh. "With Bubbles, the hair dresser wearing that electric blue suit. And that cape. He was a hoot."

"Yes, the audience responded favorably. I thought."

"Oh, yeah. Not even a fire extinguisher would put that flamer out. So where were you in the audience?"

"Near the aisle. On the left. Towards the back. I was in the brown v-neck sweater opening up to the face, but forming a definite arrow to the groin symbolizing my masculine power."

"Oh, funny. I'll have to watch for you next time I see it."

It's the same conversation every time. But this time, I want to start out this relationship on the right foot. I don't want to talk about Oprah and her hairdresser episode. I want the hairdresser to focus on me, and the absence of a hairline. And I knew if I mentioned Chicago, this simply would be impossible.

Lee was ready for me.

As Dan said, they took care of me at Helmet. Lee listened to my concerns. Suggested I use some hair formulas that decrease the rate of hair loss, and even increase the strength of my hair. He provided some styling tips, which combined with vertical stripes, should create a counter illusion to the rounding effect accentuated by hair loss. And he loaded me up with hair products, but not without first explaining how to use them.

I walked to the street with a new confidence. Confident that not only would I turn the heads of those I don't care about, but more importantly, certain those that I do care about will light up with a sense of wow.

10/03/03