Hair (Part I)

No, this is not about the musical I saw with my dad that I sat uncomfortably through as everyone got naked and my dad whispered "Jesus Christ" under his breath. This is about my very own hair and the trials that it entails.

I was born with light blond hair that grew into beautiful locks of gold. It was amazing, and then cut off so I looked less like a girl and more like a boy (proof is in the Super 8 footage of my first haircut. My face is that of a girl on Top Model about to cry when they cut off all her hair). My hair stayed light, soft and straight until I was 12. Then, one of my most hated words in the English language set in PUBERTY (that even gives me a shudder to write that word). My hair started to get darker and darker. No amount of “Sun In” was bringing the blonde back; slowly the highlights faded and became plain old brown. Then one morning I woke up and realized not only was I not blond but my soft hair was now coarse and quickly becoming wiry. Soon enough I had a full on white boy fro. I was in deep denial.

All throughout middle school I would wake up extra early to shower so I could spend 15 minutes blow drying my hair straight. It was a chore but I happily did it. My Sister did it, my Mom did it and even my Dad did it. Our house was filled with the whirl of blow dryers and shouts of “Are you DONE YET” from 6:45 until 7:15. Each school year I would try and come up with a new way to hide the shameful curl.

-In sixth grade I sported a "Zach Morris/ Wham" puffed hairdo that when people tried to touch it I would freak out and back away (no wonder everyone called me a pansy).

-In seventh grade I gave up on the poof and just tried to keep the damn out of control mess straight with lots of spray and gel thanks to my father’s abundant supply of ozone destroying Aquanet.

-In eighth grade I tried the "thinning" method. My hairdresser, Meryl, would attack my dry hair with sheers going from the scalp to the end essentially ripping out some of my hair to keep it from getting "big" (I would fall victim too this stupid method for the next 15 years of my life). I gave up on styling it at this point because I was chubby, had acne, braces & a chin strap; it was the least of my problems.

Finally after freshman year my braces had come off, I was sent to a dermatologist and my very best friend convinced me to give up all the fuss and let my hair "BE". I was given a teen make over (which is a whole other story) and went to school for the first time without blowing it dry and a full head of curls. I was happy. Happiness as a teenager is such a fleeting thing so of course it didn’t last. I got some looks and was asked what happened to my hair by several curious classmates. My replies of "this is how my hair is naturally" did not go over as well as I thought it would (much like when I said "better safe than sorry" in my earlier years). My hair had “come out”. The peak of my hair's expulsion from the dark occurred during the class all physically inept people dread most - GYM.

I was sitting on the bleachers with some girls chatting away avoiding any physical activity. I noticed the bitchy female gym teacher glaring my way and tried to avoid eye contact. I didn’t want to have to play shirts and skins “crab ball” and was trying to make it seem like I was more interested in “deck tennis” (aka sitting in the bleachers purposely losing rounds in the tournament). It was too late, she was walking towards me. My face got hot with guilt and all the girls around me began to hush. We were all worried she was going to ask us to doing something "sporty".

"Randy..." she approached

"Um yes Mrs. Cowell" I meekly replied.

"I just wanted to say I LOVE your hair!" Her voice boomed.

"Oh, well thanks" I was surprised- the first compliment, granted from a female gym teacher but I would take it where I could get it.

"What did you do to it?! Did you get a perm?!" she asked excitedly as her hands extended forward for a touch.

Laughter. I felt like Carrie yet again.

"Ummmm no Mrs. Cowell, this is how my hair is naturally, I was straightening it before"- I backed away from her hardened dry hands as they slowly approached my luscious locks.

Dumb ass! Admitting I worked at my hair as a boy in high school was almost worse than singing and dancing on stage in front of jocks... almost.

I was shamed into submission with hair talk for another year until the very same friend who suggested I let it “be” had another idea …

It was 1994 and grunge was at the "height of fashion". My head was filled with fantasy's of Eddie Veder raping me, I possessed four discount Van Heusen flannels I washed over and over to make them look used (it just ran the shitty dye), I sported Doc Martins with pride and was filled with angst. It was suggested as the ultimate teenage rebellion I grow my hair long. This friend of mine had a penchant for shaggy haired dirty boys and thought the look would suit me. I wanted to have sex with shaggy haired dirty boys so I immediately began growing out the mess.

It took a year. A year of awful mullet head, hats and down the middle parts pasted to my forehead. After months of pulling my hair down my face to see how long it was it reached my shoulders. It was a shining example of my love for Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and all things that looked like they were picked out of the trash.

The thing about a gay boy and long hair is you can spend hours practicing hairstyles-- on yourself! I would sit in front of the mirror doing the Marsha Brady 100 strokes a night, style it into French twists, French braids, regular braids, pig tails, the Bjork "Big Time Sensuality" hairdo, Princess Leah's- you name it I did it on my own head and quite well! I would even put on hair shows for my best friend (much to her delight)when I visited her. The problem of course was I could not figure out how to wear my hair as a GUY. I usually just pulled it back in a pony tail and called it a day. I was not the best at caring for it as I did not understand the amount of time long curly hair consumed to make it look effortless. However when I pulled it out of the ponytail, it had a nice straight sheen to it and I could let it flow free (God I wanted straight hair). This fantasy would abruptly end when the wind blew, the sheet of hair broke and I had triangle head. It was a curse and a blessing all in one. Curse because it was girls hair, blessing because without those locks I never would have played the "most poetic" (aka GAY) Romeo in Romeo and Juliet at the Boston Public Theater (I also happened to look good in the costume).

I soon decided that shoulder length was too much to care for and was not a good look for an “actor”. I had auditions for college coming up and needed to feel attractive and clean, not dirty and downtrodden. After my senior photo was taken I decided to cut it. This time however I had so much hair to work with I wanted to go to a curly hair specialist. I begged my mom to take me to a salon in Boston where they understood how to work with curly hair. I wanted to avoid the hair ripping thinning process and finally have an easy care hair do. My mom was having a hair crisis at the time herself so she set us both up with appointments at an expensive salon on Newbury Street.

Going into a Salon where you are not familiar with the hairdresser and saying “Go Nuts” is really not a good idea. I thought if you were paying top dollar for a hair cut you were getting the best. I still did not grasp the idea that “just because it’s expensive doesn’t always mean it’s good”. I was set up with a slim, young black man wearing tight jeans and a 70’s style shirt open to his navel named Corey. I sat in the chair and explained my hair history thus far. When asked what I wanted I said “whatever you think would suit me best”.

What did Corey think would look best? A Cosmo Kramer- yes the beloved wacky neighbor from the wildly popular Sienfeld with curly hair that stood up on end. Now this was not the “typical” Kramer cut it was more along the lines of the “moussed” Kramer (remember that episode, it’s the one were Elaine is moving into Jerry’s Building and Kramer discovers the joys of mousse). It was still up in the front but the curls were overly shiny and in tact, sliding down the side of his head. When I was spun around to look in the mirror I did not speak, my Mom spoke for me “He loves it!” I was given products galore to maintain the frizz and keep the curl in tact which brought the grand total to $150.

Being the influential teenager I was I kept this style for a total of two months. We have some really great Christmas photos where I look like I just stuck my finger in an electrical socket and then poured grease on my head. I was told by my acting teacher it was a much more “casting friendly” hair style. I was not that pleased. I felt like it made my pubescent face look fat. I also thought it was not stylish enough for the young man who wrote the fashion column in the daily bulletin. I needed to change.

After seeing a few of the above said photos I was horrified. It was worse than I thought. I immediately took my Christmas money, called up Corey and made another appointment. This time I went in with a plan. This time, I had a picture.

George Clooney was on ER and hitting it big time. He was handsome, dashing and he had that killer haircut. The “Caesar” had hit America. It was the “must have” of the hair season. I too HAD to have it. I arrived at the salon and was greeted by Corey with a kiss on the cheek and I handed him the photo- “THAT is what I want”.

It was a good haircut for me. When it grew out a little the curl would make me look like a roman statue head. I was even told I looked like “Mahk Antneee” by a grocery store clerk. I was happy, truly happy. I found the haircut that worked best for me. It was effortless, wind proof, water proof and required very little product (even though I still piled it on, old habits die hard).

Then I grew restless….