Pageboy to Poshboy

I've always stated that my best asset resides directly above my forehead.



I reiterated my personal mantra to my hair stylist, Molly, as she tied the cape around my neck, in preparation to give me a much needed hair cut.

She replies, "Well, if you've got a good brain, that's all that matters!"

I scoffed, "My brain?! How DARE you. I'm talking about my hair...Hello?!" I exclaimed while pointing to the shampooed dripping wet mess on my head.

She smiles, "Well, if you've got fabulous hair and a fabulous brain, you're way ahead of the game."

If only...

Unfortunately, along with my thick head of hair, I've got the legs, stomach and cheeks to match. My hair and my body have stayed with my through thick and thin, minus the latter. In fact, the only thin I'm fluent in is the mint. (Thanks Girls Scouts!)

Based on the genetic betrayal that is my legacy (anyone?) I've always felt the need to overcompensate with my pelt of hair in order to distract from other areas that dare not speak their names. (That means you Wendy, i.e. my left breast...take that Daniel Day.)

I typically get my hair cut at the Rudy's Barbershop in Silverlake which is within walking distance from my place.


http://www.rudysbarbershop.com/

Don't let the name fool you, this isn't your father's barbershop where your friendly neighborhood barber whips out his clippers, buzzes you a generic flat top, asks you whether you want the back rounded or square, discusses the local weather and politely sends you on your way.

At Rudy's, the stylists are inked from head to toe in designs their abstract artist friends customized for them, the walls are plastered with magazine cutouts of emaciated, brooding hipsters hiding behind strategically disheveled bangs and/or Chloe Sevigny/Michael Pitt and the idle chatter is not the weather, but whether or not Winehouse is a fool to stand by Blake as he rots in the clinker or whether Radiohead are fools for their latest pay-it-your-way album "In Rainbows". (I paid 6 pounds, fyi.)

I always let the stylists do their thing, way too embarrassed to whip out the crinkled, folded up picture of Jake that I ripped out of Details magazine as a visual reference point, which I carry on me at all times in case of emergency. You never know when you'll need to whip a picture of Gyllenhaal out of your back pocket, but I think I'll wait for my first bar fight.



Point of the matter, in spite of never detailing exactly what I want, I've never left Rudy's with a bad haircut. So, the day before I was leaving Los Angeles to come back to Florida for the holidays, I was desperate to get my hair chopped off as it had grown to a undesirably shaggy length. That final day in question, I was going to the wrap party for NEXT and although I have true faith in my Rudy's, I was scared that my regular rockabilly hipster might have called in stoned and I'd get stuck with a random aggresive vegan who might take her protein deprived anger out on my head and I'd be immortalized in the wrap party photos with some hideous Fall Out Boy inspired mess...so I decided to be patient and wait 'til I got down to Bradenton to take care of my elongated tresses.

I was more than happy to be patient, being that my friend Jessi's mom, Lynne, is an accomplished hair stylist who has been giving me inspired chops for years and years. I knew that Lynne is normally booked months in advance, especially around the holidays, but I figured she'd be able to squeeze me in somewhere. No such luck :( Jess informs me that her mom is overbooked, and I'd better pray for a cancellation. Well, I prayed for two weeks straight, but GOD has bigger concerns on his plate than my 'do, proof that GOD perhaps is a man after all (Sorry Rory!)

As my hair continued to grow, my spirits started to fall and I slowly felt myself slipping into a hair depression not seen since the days of Rosie.



The other day I was staring in the mirror and I realized I was the poster child for No Country For Old Men, the amazing new film from the Coen Brothers. The star of the film, played by the genius Javier Bardem (you must see him in Before Night Falls, which I just re-rented...Thnx Netflix.) Anyhow, in No Country For Old Men, Javy rocks the most ridiculous pageboy haircut which is as frightening as anything else in the film.



It was the same cut that I was staring at in the mirror. No Haircut for Chubby Men, the Brian Reiss story was currently playing, and I made it my mission that it would have a happy ending afterall.



I called Jess again, insisting she do anything in her power to get me on her mother's appointment roster. Sadly, the wife of the mayor of Bradenton takes precedence over Brian Reiss, yet I've seen ZERO evidence to support such a foolish hierarchy. As the television ads for No Country For Old Men started popping up on television, I felt mocked and humiliated, desperate to take matters into my own hands as I considered grabbing the scissor myself. It's me or the girls over at Fantastic Sams, and I'm sorry, but I've had my haircut there back in the day, and the highest compliment one could bestow on poor Sam would be mediocore at best. Fantastic my ass, nice try Sammy Boy.

Well, God must have found a brief opening in his schedule to consider my 'do because Jes texted me that her mother's colleague at her salon would be able to fit me in for a haircut the following day. I assume the minute God got word that Oprah was flying to Iowa to stump for Obama, he breathed a sigh of relief, realizing Oprah could substitute for him for a hot sec while he turned his powers to more urgent matters at hand, my hair.

The next day I triumphantly entered the salon. As I settled in the chair, I looked at my dome, I breathed a cathartic sigh of relief, as the moment, many months in the making was finally here!

My new stylist, Molly (not her real name, but I shall use this moniker in order to protect her identity) went at it with her shears.

Snip, snip, snip...

Large clumps of my hair falling to the ground, my pageboy 'do was a don't of the past!

Halle-berry-lujah! (Bad Brian, Bad!)

Halfway through the cut I started to laugh.

"Molly" dropped her scissors to her sides, "What's so funny?"

Me: "Look, I'm rocking the Posh!"



By Posh, I'm referring to the ubiquitous haircut of 2007 brought to the limelight by the vapid, vile, Victoria B. herself. A woman who's only real friend, or so it seems, outside of the fab five (love to Sporty) happens to be Katie Holmes. Katie Holmes!!! Sick. This is a woman who's only strength is her honesty, being that she just recently admitted that she can't really sing or dance THAT well. In fact, I read a review of the Spice Girls concert that stated that all the girls sing a solo except for Posh, who instead chooses to do a catwalk routine to RuPaul's "Supermodel". You gotta admit that this girl knows her role, and instead of inflicting any pain on her fan's eardrums, she (wisely) chooses to vamp down a runway with her cellphone. Poor thing.

Hideous!!!

Anyhow, as I'm staring at the man in the mirror (Thnx Michael!) I can't help but scoff. Molly had already chopped off half my hair on one side, and parted the longer locks to the other side of my face, giving me a temporary Posh. A tosh. As I posed in the mirror for a moment, I couldn't resist pulling Molly's chain.

"You know what, I should seriously rock this. How amazing would it be if I tried to pull off the Male Posh?"

My stylist interjects, "Well, we could do something kind of creative if you like"

Me, deadpan, "Just do whatever. I totally trust you."

I go back to chit-chatting while she goes back to snip-snapping. Before you know it she's exchanged the scissors for clippers and starts tidying up my sideburns and touching up my neckline. She drops the clippers in exchange for some hair product and does a little sculpting. She turns my chair so I'm facing the mirror dead-on.

Molly announces, with pride, "We're done!"

Within twenty minutes my hair went from Pageboy to Poshboy.

Aside from a few minor snips and a little styling, after I made my Posh joke, the hair cut was done.

I had a male Posh.

A Mosh.

A total Botch!

Speechless for the first time in the seat, I sat there frozen in terror, staring at my Mosh. Well, staring out of one eye to be honest, the other eye covered in my newly asymmetrical bang.

God, thou has forsaken me! Oprah must have fucked up because the almighty ditched Bradenton for Iowa and left me as Speechless Spice.

TO BE CONTINUED....

I swear on all that's holy (that means you Mary J) it gets worse!!!!

Peace, Love & Snax,
Brian