“You must come to Thanksgiving with my lover. He would adore you!” The flamboyantly gay hairdresser slapped me playfully on the arm. Oscar and I had been entertaining one another for 10 minutes while the other hairdressers debated in Spanish regarding color treatments. The end result of the debate was the pronouncement that “the color I choose would be the color they use.” Then Alberto and Amparo proceeded to apply enough dye to permanently shade the ocean. Amparo was energetic in her application. My sensitive European scalp left me no choice but to mutter epithets with every accidental yank. Dye flew everywhere, staining the book I had brought, my arms, and the soles of my shoes.
Amidst this Oscar explained to me the “process” he had used to obtain his lover. It involved the Greyhound bus station in the ‘80s. If any of you passed through L.A. in those days, I suggest a good HIV test.
Oscar asked if I had family. “Are your brothers cute?”
“Much more Grace than Will, Oscar,” I explained.
“Oh, honey. You don’t know what I can do with a case of beer.” I laughed. Oscar was a riot, and definitely a Jack to my Karen.
The time came for shampoo. A half bottle of chemical and a good drowning followed. Amparo seemed very concerned that she wouldn’t get all that dye out, so she scrubbed my whole face, my arms and legs. I have never been bathed as an adult. I had hoped my first time would involve less cringing. Amparo scrubbed with the same vehemence she applied.
By that point, Alberto disquieted me by saying, “We not charge you for extra shampoo.” I was much relieved yet concerned about the water bill he neglected to mention.
Oscar returned for the cut. He produced a picture of himself in drag. “Oscar!” I exclaimed. “No wonder there are no guys left for the rest of us! You’re a babe and a half!” Oscar proceeded to invite me to “be [his] straight bitch.” I’m not sure what that means, but I feel very cosmopolitan for it, as thought I have truly arrived.
I’ll feel guilty if I don’t go back to my stereotypical Hollywood barbershop soon. But it may take several years for the color of my hair to fade to normal and stop falling out from chemical abuse. *Sigh* The price I pay for a 20% discount….
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Madden on fashion: Wait. I don’t get it. So, it’s not good to be a size zero?
8 comments:
I can't see the picture!! :-(
But I like your story. I, for one, can never talk to hairdressers. Firstly, I'll be half blind due to me taking off my glasses so they don't get in the way and secondly, I'm always inwardly apologizing for the sad state of the ball of frizz I call hair.
I'm thinking of dyeing my hair soon. Wonder if Oscar's available, eh?
Dying hair? What color? Why wasn't I consulted?
Charge for extra shampoo? I never heard of such a thing. These desperate attempts to convince you you're getting a bargain, eh?
(Seriously: it's not good to be a size zero? We don't even have such sizes over here. Wow.)
Ah. A size 0 free world. I love that the ultimate weight goal of weight women is nonexistence.
Anyway, the hair is still red, I just wanted to change from usual strawberry blonde to a vivid auburn. Given the amount of dye used, I'll be vivid auburn until I turn 60.
I believe in drastic changes. Especially in hair. And gay men do know color, honey. If only they'd let Oscar do the color, too. Ah, well. *sigh* Can't have everything in this life, but you can be one bad-a straight bitch (and I mean that in all its connotations).
Truly... FRIGHTENING!
I'm going to admit that this post was not well-written. It just didn't come off....oh, well. Life goes on. I'll post something new and count my losses.
What really scares me? I couldn't "invent" this kind of experience. Embellish maybe, twist-to-fit, but that's all.
And that's scary. And cool!
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