... or Why I Wear My Hot Sexy Boots for A Gay Guy I Only See Once Every Eight Weeks
Today I went through the torture ritual of getting dressed–prior to my haircut. There was a shower too, and shaving, and an awful lot of tweezing.
I am off at 12:30 to see The Man– Mickey, my hairdresser. In the span of an hour he’ll wash and cut my unruly curly mop up there, and like always, he’ll do an amazing job. And like I do every two months, this morning I am gnashing teeth, thinking “What will I wear that Mickey will like, or at the very least not sniff at?” sigh…
I am fairly sure that Mickey could give a rats patooty about me and my cheap Kohl’s boots (which I am spinning about right now because I am SURE he can tell by the click of my heels that they are cheap boots and not some high-end brand… the name of which I cannot name because I don’t own a stitch of clothing that didn’t come from Kohl’s).
And I am sure it was because I only figured out recently (like last hair cut, one year later) that I was supposed to go in the coat closet and put some sort of hairdressing gown over my clothes that Mickey never talks to me during my cut. I ask questions and he says “mmm hmmm.” Full stop.
I never-ever feel frightened or even remotely interested in wearing nice clothes when I go to the Asian nail and wax salon for an occasional $15 pedicure and my $8 eyebrow wax. In fact, the pedicure is really just an excuse to read US Weekly and catch up on bad women’s magazines. Everyone there is SO cheerful… I think. I do, however, make sure I am fully waxed before I go to see Mickey. I don’t even do that for Colin any more!
Don’t Go Breaking My Ends
I suppose my problem with visiting Mickey is a combination of fear and incomprehension. The fear is that he might disappear one day and I’d have to live again through a series of horrific trial-and-error haircuts (ala SOS pads) while trying to find a new Mickey. The incomprehension is that there is possibly a gay man out there that doesn’t meet me and instantly want to take me home to meet his partner and gayly forward (never go straight, always go gayly forward!) out to the clubs for dancing and cocktails. So I guess, in that sense, Mickey is my gay Everest. And where the heck do you get a Sherpa for that sort of thing?
And if you are wondering if I have finally cracked, possibly. However, I am fully aware that what-to-wear-to-your-gay-hairdresser paranoia is just on the other side of “Too Much Free Time”-Land.
Anyway, so that’s what I am up to today… how are you?