Confessions of A Naughty Girl

Every Woman Needs A Good (Gay) Man

I am a pretty confident girl. I don't think I'm the hottest, nicest, most intelligent thing on the planet, but self-confidence has never really been lacking. I would even venture to guess that if anything, I might be even a little overconfident. No one scares me. I am not easily intimidated. And if I ever come off that way, it's usually not because I am scared to say or do something, but more because I just don't think it's worth the bother.

Even so, I have my days. Like anyone else on the planet, I worry about being incompetent in my career. I worry about not having enough time for my family, or my friends. Hell, I think about gravity taking its toll on my mammaries quite a bit. I am rounding the quarter century mark, and the perk is bound to lose its elasticity sooner or later.

Every two years or so I go through a superficial flip out. I usually do something sort of drastic, and usually to my hair. With my two-year marker around the bend (I got a flat iron and bangs in '03) and a wedding in three weeks, I decided it was time for a much-needed ego stroke. (This decision was made more time-sensitive when I found out that a couple of flings from my Chicago past planned to be in attendance. As soon as I heard, I did what any girl would do, which was vow to starve myself for three weeks and remind aforementioned flings of what they've been missing out on since we parted ways.)

So I went to see my gay colorist. And hairstylist.

No, you are not to confuse the two, as I initially did. One does the color, and one does the cut. And each one of them contributes about $100 worth of attention to my head per stylist, which adds up to an unjustifiable $200 salon tab, some blonde highlights, and a personal ego skyrocket up by approximately 5 notches.

I was lucky enough to find a great salon a few months ago, with two gay men who really understand me. Do I trust them? Fully. Do I love them? Not yet. But I definitely do appreciate them. What's not to love about two good-looking men who understand how hard it is to find a good pair of jeans and who continually tell you how fabulous you are?

Last time I was in, I promised Ken and Ric, who are always trying to get me to do crazy shit with my hair, that I would let them play and do something dramatic next time. And dramatic it was! I traded in a mop full of reddish brown hair that was almost halfway down my back when straight for a more-blonde-than-I've-ever-been, just-past-the-shoulders hair cut with long layers. I look like a maxi pad with wings. I look like the 4th member of Hanson. But in a totally good way. If anything, this haircut is entirely too cool for me. I feel like there's no way I can live up to what's up on the top of my head. I should be getting high as a kite on my tour bus, on the way to my next gig. I should be doing it with a roadie in my dressing room during sound check. I should absolutely not, under any circumstances, be pairing my rock star haircut with a white Oxford shirt, and tucking my hair back behind my ear while I try to figure out why my flowchart is off by $3500, which is precisely what I am doing. (And I would post a picture on The Portal - also see the new link on the sidebar - but I haven't taken any pictures out since last weekend, so posting a headshot of myself would be pretty gay - no pun intended. Nevertheless, I will try to post something with the new hair as soon as possible.)

I spent three and a half hours in the salon getting primped. When I said I wanted to go a little blonde, Ken showed me a picture of some bitch in Vogue with blonde hair and dark stripes interwoven. After I asked him to go "a little less skunk, and a little more skank", he gave me a beach-kissed look, which is great, aside from the fact that it's the middle of November and metro Atlanta is landlocked. But hey, it was "fabulous". It "really brought out my gorgeous eyes". Ka-ching! You just earned $100, baby. Good job.

But it was Ric who was truly responsible for this very new, "fabulous" version of me. After cutting what he claimed was only 2 inches off the ends of my hair but was seriously at least 4, he then pulled half of my hair towards my face and started whacking at it with a razor blade. A razor blade?! Yes, to give it "edge" and "depth" and "imperfection". By the way, does anyone else find it odd that I am striving for "imperfection" so I can look like perfection? But I digress.

At one point, I saw so much of my hair on the floor of the salon that I was thinking about turning my head really quickly and offering up my jugular to the magic of his blade, but I remembered that I had plans to go out that night and that if the haircut turned out really badly, I could always just pull it back, get really drunk, and put off the internal bleeding for one more day. But he proclaimed that it would turn out "just peachy", and that it would really frame my "exotic-looking face" (aka interesting, mismatched features), so ka-ching! He earned $100. Well actually, more like $90. I shaved a tenner off for calling me "exotic". It didn't sit well.

But behold the power of Ken and Ric - I have received more compliments over this new 'do in the last three days than I've gotten in the last three months. It's pretty amazing.
And I feel super. A little freaked out still, but super. Which just goes to show you that even thought it cost me $200 and almost four hours out of my Saturday afternoon, a little gay goes a long way.

posted by KA @ 9:50 PM