On the Lighter Side

Though I've been mistaken for gay by more than a handful of women I fully intended on sleeping with (even some I actually did sleep with, and one I am sleeping with), and called metrosexual by a disappointing number of coworkers, I do not spend a lot of time preening in front of mirrors. That's not to say I consider myself some kind of au-natural Adonis (said tapping the burgeoning beer gut), just that I occasionally have decent hair. In fact, I've had the same haircut for upwards of 20 years; every now and then it's inevitably in style.

Recently Gertie suggested I spend more than $9 on a haircut and treat myself to a salon experience. I had been reluctant for some time. I am far too easily lured into spending money I shouldn't; a former girlfriend had me try on a pair of designer jeans once and two years later the value of my collection is on par with my car. But, with a soon-to-expire gift certificate to a male-friendly salon burning a hole in my pocket, I decided to give it a whirl.

Located in Virginia Highlands, I had an idea of what to expect. A well-appointed space lined with mahogany paneling. Flat screen TVs playing sports and the Godfather on a continual loop. Tastefully, yet scantily-clad hairdressers fussing over men in loafers.

I got the mahogany part wrong.

My hairdresser was a well-coiffed, pleasant young woman who greeted me with a handshake, a drink, and a shoulder rub. Thirty seconds into the experience and I was hooked. Normally I give the Supercuts people a three page manual on cropping the doo, but I had decided on the way over to give the professionals full creative liberty. "You can do whatever you want with my ha...," I stammered, as her hands moved up my shoulders, on to my neck, finally settling on my attention-deprived scalp. The massage lasted a full five minutes and left me drunkenly relaxed and possibly semi-erect. Then she grilled me about what I was looking for in a haircut, and offered suggestions on both short-term and long-term strategies. This was hard to articulate as my permanent strategy on hair is simply to not look like a brillo pad.

When we decided on an approach - equal parts non-whiffle David Beckham combined with scruffy-period Brad Pitt, I was ushered to a supple leather chair for a hair washing. First a soaking and rub down in warm water. Then, a vigorous lathering with massage. And last, a conditioning followed immediately by a cold water rinse. Top it off with a hot towel on the face and I was ready to propose. Right after my nap.

The cutting was next. Though I'd seen it in movies, I don't recall ever experiencing the sensation of scissors so close to my head; normally it is the exclusive domain of #3 electric razors. It was slow, methodical and quite relaxing. Between small talk about the city and men's fashion trends, I caught some of the finer moments of Godfather II, like when Michael Corleone belligerently testifies before Congress and uses the word "besmirch." Good stuff.

After, she rinsed my hair one final time and put her final touches on its styling, showing me how to replicate the procedure myself. Almost as soon as I left I felt my hair getting all terminator on me, mutating back into what it has always been, like a dog coming home after a night fucking the lab next door - happy, hungry and ready to lay on the sofa.

I'm a convert.