Something life changing happened to me in the course of twenty minutes. To rephrase, something life-changing happened to my hair over the course of twenty minutes. To say that my hair expresses outwardly my inner tormoils and joys is an understatement.
This is not to be confused with vanity, mind you. When I feel like shit, my hair looks like shit. When I am slowly unraveling, my hair is nearing mullet proportions. Yet, in keeping with the balance, when I have that joy inside that makes my butt hairs tingle, my hair looks fucking amazing.
Now yes I use product, sometimes copious amounts, but I do not feel that that changes the empathic nature of my follicles. Because when I am feeling shitty, product only stands to worsen my hair’s physical state; as if my hair reacts better to the outside world (i.e. product) when I am feeling happy.
For quite some time now, I would say the better part of the last year, as I have been careening through a transitional phase, I have been trying to grow out my hair. For a while I was the king, or most likely prince, of the spikey-messy-I-Care-But-Don’t-Care do. At the mere mention of the word faux hawk my hair sprung up to tight attention in the middle. It became accustomed to products such as “hair glue”, “hair cement”, “hair fudge” and the ever popular “Bed Head”. Poor hair.
The problem with the spikey…was that in reality it wasn’t practical. My hair grows at an abnormally fast pace. So in three or four weeks gravity would take over and my hair would adopt a tsunami type affectation. Flying insects would surf my hair, or rather get stuck in the massive amount of gooey product cementing my tidal wave. As it would grow out, my head would begin to look wider and wild hairs would spring out from behind my ears curling around my lobes. So then, to counteract I would cut my hair fantastically short. The kind of short that makes you look at someone and go, “Why didn’t he just buzz his head. I mean really…what is he going to do with that extra 2.47 centimeters?”
What I did with that extra 2.47 centimeters was apply massive amounts of product to it. This time, hair thickening spray. This way, in two weeks time, my hair would have reached the best length for the spikey. And, as that sad little 2.47 centimeters was whipped into submission, the rest of my hair would naturally jump to a point. The effect was optimal good style time. I could usually mold a perfect do for over a month.
Spikey also wasn’t practical, because at the time I was fervently acting. For some reason, even in a contemporary show, directors always decide that your character would not have spikey hair (which is actually the downside of playing younger brothers, geeks and losers…which is/was my type). So inevitably I would have to let my hair grow to the most dreaded phase of all.
The pie slice phase.
When eating a piece of pie from front to crust there is that point where eventually the crust outweighs the rest of the filling and it has no choice but to topple backwards. That is the pie slice phase. When my hair, no longer spikable, and way past the tsunami phase, has no choice but to lay down flat against my forehead, begging to be parted, intersecting my brow at the midway point. The effect is that of a stooge-factor. I look invariably like Moe from the Three Stooges. Or, what I fear the most, I look like a twelve year old boy. Regardless of whether or not I have a five o’clock shadow, goatee, or full beard, during the pie slice phase, I look like I am prepubescent. (Granted, I have always looked excessively younger than my age, but the hair is the most detrimental factor)
So then immediately after I would finish a show, my hair would be sheared to the 2.57 centimeter length and the process would begin again. Inevitably I would end up in another show and so the process would continue.
2.47 centimeter. Optimal phase. Spikey. Tsunami. Pie slice phase.
2.47 centimeter. Optimal phase. Spikey. Tsunami. Pie slice phase.
It was after a particularly long stretch of back to back shows, that my hair began to surpass the pie slice phase. This was new and uncharted territory for me, but as I was extremely busy, I hardly had time to notice. I would shower, wash my hair, throw some “Hair Gum” mixed with “Root Paste” into my hair and run out the door. Even when the hair is not cooperating, product is preferable to at least give the public the impression that this…flat…smooshed…and tangled…is how you intended for your hair to look.
At some point, the back of my hair had grown down my neck into the early and rarely seen, for damn good reason, Sasquatch phase. This had to change. In the middle of a show I did the thing one is not supposed to do. I got a hair cut. A trim really. I went to a salon and asked to only have the back cleaned up. She explained to me that she would need to trim around the ears to make it look uniform. I obliged her, because she was a trained professional. When she went to cut the front, or what some people call…bangs…as I understand it, I had to stop her. And explain to her that yes typically you would trim everywhere as to avoid a bowl cut, but because of my chosen profession I need my hair to look like this. With great effort she put her scissors down and let me leave the salon. It was sweet, really, that she had my best intentions at heart.
Over the course of the show, my bangs…if you will…continued to grow until, they fell flat against my forehead and began to form and sway into chunky, manageable clods of hair.
(Quick preface….in high school I was the king of the wind tunnel look which was long hair parted down the middle and then fluffed up pathetically high so as to achieve an almost “Gleming the Cube” or “Pump Up the Volume” look. I call it…The Slater. The Slater was immeasurably preferable to the other parted down the middle option…the penis head…which I assume is self-explanatory. When I outgrew this phase…thankfully…and was done dying my hair various shades of blue, which always turned teal, I decided to do away with the Slater. Which is where the Spikey was born. I suppose…the constant Spikey was a subconscious attempt to avoid my awkward high school years.)
Then it happened. One day at work, my boss said, “Cool hair.”
Certainly she isn’t talking to me. Certainly she did not just tell this shaggy, unkempt, bowl-cut, clodded excuse for an actor he had cool hair.
“I think you should grow it out. It makes you look…older…no…cooler.”
I immediately ran to the bathroom and began fussing with my hair.
She was right.
My god. I looked cool.
And empathically because of the symbiotic relationship with my hair. I felt cool too.
And so began the phase of growth. I would always make sure nothing was clippered and that the bulk of the length remained. Fortunately, as my hair was longer, fewer directors required it to be cut.
This led to some awkward hair-dos and some equally awkward emotional states. Hoodies became my best friend.
As well, in order to achieve the desired effect (which for the record was “I just roll out of bed and my hair looks this hipster.”) I would also have to get it trimmed to allow the front and back to catch up.
Finally, as my hair entered the final phase, I knew I was close. I began seeing the same woman who knew to take weight out of the top and underlayers, but to leave the length. To clean up my neck but allow the elf-like wisps to continue to grow around my ears. One more trim and my hair would grow to the optimal shaggy phase (of course…optimal for the shape of my face). The optimal phase had many benefits, including:
1) Rarely needing to wash my hair
2) Reducing the amount of product used (which was already happening)
3) On bad days to be able to hide the bulk of my face under a mop of hair and pass myself off as a “hipster-over-the-eye” kind of guy
4) The ability to make small changes in my style that, while almost imperceptible, could change the entire infrastructure of my life and social ability. Imaging that with the movement of one cloddy, tendril of hair to be to go from day to evening and back again. And because of the new thickness and different hair lengths (thanks to my wonderful stylist) my options would be unlimited.
My hair and I were salivating in anticipation.
It is also at this time, I would like to note that the longer hair also made my life, amazingly more convenient.
Typically I am late for work. Which I blame on my hair and the brown line. You see, as I near the El station the eight o’clock train is always leaving. I am usually approximately one minute and forty-seven seconds too late. Which I figure, one minute and forty-seven seconds is about the time it takes to wash and/or style, my hair. With my new longer do, I rarely washed my hair and even more rarely put mixtures of product, if any at all, in it.
The result? I was late to work much less than I previously was.
But, like all fairy tales, this story has its dragon.
My hair had now reached a length not suitable for the stage. I would have to cut it again. It was “too shaggy” to be believable.
I begged, pleaded.
“Please. Please. PLEASE let me keep my hair. I will wear a hat on stage. We can pin it.
PLEASE! You don’t understand I am almost at my optimal phase!!!”
To no avail.
As my stylist, slowly and with great reverence, began to cut my hair my heart sank. My hair was crying and there was nothing I could do for it. But believe me I felt its pain.
“Do you want to make it spikey?”
“No,” I said, “just clean up the back and go above the ears.”
“But…”
“I know what I said…just do it!”
And now, I look twelve years old again.
Pie slice phase.
After the haircut I realized…
Acting…acting is to blame. Acting is what has always caused me to have to cut my hair. Acting has stood in the way of my sanity. Every time I am in a show and have to cut my hair, I feel self-conscious and doubt every move I make.
Lately, the joy I received from acting is waning. I am finding myself to be much more creative on the page and I honestly rarely ever second-guess something I write. If I do mess it up…it is easy enough to fix. And most importantly my hair can look like whatever I want it to as a writer.
So…after this show is completed I will bid goodbye to acting. Temporarily. Most likely not forever, but for some time. My mind and body needs time to heal. To restore. And I feel that I can only feel great about myself, if I allow myself and my hair to reach that optimal phase again. If even for an instant.
I eagerly anticipate what stories my hair and I will weave. Pun intended.
