Ober and Out

Dear bestie(s),

[Insert apology for not keeping blog up to date here]

So much has been going on in my life since last we spoke. Or rather, since last you read. Where to begin? Well, for starters, I gave birth to twins shortly after winning the Olympic gold medal in biathlon. Just before that, I started a Fortune-500 company that makes personal care products for redheads with pasty skin. Oh, and I have been asked to host the Oscars. So, that’s pretty great.

But before all of that, I got my haircut.

Before haircut.

After haircut.

Because I have special hair (and by special I mean boring), I can’t just have any beer-guzzling, gun-toting, liberty-loving American swat at my head with a pair of shears. No, this mane will only take coiffing by a Canuck. But not one from Ottawa or Alberta. The person who cuts my locks must be Quebecois. So every couple months, I head up North to Canadialand and get my hair chopped. At a bike shop. For queers.

I’m not sure how I first found out about JJ Levine, lesbian haircutter to the stars. But it was about a year ago when I first felt the swift swipe of her razor working its way through my mop. JJ cuts hair at a place called Bikurious Montreal. It’s basically a bike shop with a hair cutting station. She offers what she calls “lesbian haircuts for everyone.” Or “coupe lesbienne pour n’importe qui” if you talk foreign.

This is JJ’s bilingual business card.

The fact that I get my hair cut in Montreal signifies that I’m cool, most likely cooler than you. It says I have style and daring. It shows that I am cosmopolitan. N’est pas? The customs officers at the border crossing are always incredibly impressed when they ask what I was doing in Canada and I say, with a certain smugness, “getting my hair cut.” They are so impressed, in fact, that they often detain me for hours just to admire my new ‘do.

So on this day, I drove up to Montreal and made it to JJ’s in a breezy hour and a half. In front of me in the leopard-print barber chair was a cancer-ridden, drug-addled lesbian who talked through her entire haircut about how much she liked to party and do drugs. Cool. JJ shaved the sides of her meaty scalp, leaving a strip of long hair in the center. The woman joked that it would probably all come out in chemo, eh.

Then it was my turn in the chair. Now, I should say that getting my haircut is incredibly traumatic. The mirror, the person with her hands in your hair, the asking for what you want, the crossing your fingers hoping the stylist understands, etc. That said, JJ is pretty chill and cuts good hair. So that makes things a little easier.

When JJ asked me what I wanted, I didn’t really know what to say. Here’s a basic transcript of the interaction:

JJ: What do you want to do with your hair?

Me: Um, I don’t know. I’d like the back shorter and get rid of the weight in the front.

JJ: Ok, so you want a short hair cut?

Me: Um, well, no, I don’t know. Maybe.

JJ: But we’re taking off the mull (rad person slang for mullet)?

Me: Yeah. I don’t know. Just do whatever.

JJ: Ok.

That interaction is how I ended up looking like Boris Becker

This is Boris Becker.

Now, I like Boris Becker. No disrespect to the man. But it’s not what I went into the shop hoping to come out looking like. When JJ finished and gave me my glasses back, I was a little bit taken aback. I’ve never had short hair before. I looked like Julia Roberts as Shelby in “Steel Magnolias” after she cut her hair. My self-esteem lay in clumps on the floor beneath me. I immediately looked around for my hat. The cool queer girl with the gigantic spectacles who was hanging out in the shop waiting for a trim said I looked good, but I’m pretty sure I looked like a tennis ball.

This is a tennis ball.

The whole way home I obsessed over my hair. With my eyes squarely focused at my image in the rearview mirror, it’s a wonder I got home without crashing. I was sure I’d have to wear a hat or a fancy old lady turban for the next three months. When I got home, I collapsed into a bundle of patheticness, sobbed about my hair for a day and a half and vowed I would never leave the house again.

When I finally got the courage to reenter the world of good hair, I was greeted with comments like “Wow, did you get a haircut? It’s very boyish.” and “Well, that’s a very sporty haircut you have.” In this instance, sporty didn’t mean it looked like I’m going to take home the gold medal in speedskating; it meant I looked like  a lesbian. I suppose there are worse things than looking like what you already are. Like looking like a crazy mass shooter.

This is a crazy mass shooter.

It’s been a couple weeks now since JJ razored off the bulk of my hair. It’s not her fault that I get wishy-washy about what I want the minute I put my sweet one in the chair. To her credit, it is a good haircut. Everyone’s told me so. Except for my mother who hasn’t seen it, and most likely won’t. Because her reaction would most likely be this: “But you looked so cute with long hair.” Yeah, like when I was 8 — the last time I had truly long hair.

I suppose I’ve settled into the haircut. I might even like it now. I think it looks like a pile of sweet meringue sitting atop my head. At least it made my attempt at being a Temptation during Winter is a Drag Ball XV a little more believable. Because we all know the Temptations were white homos with short red hair.