STORY: Row, Row, Row my Head

Its been too hot to update… if you’ve anywhere near New York this past week, you know what I mean.






First off, let me begin by thanking each and every one of you who emailed telling me to get a hair cut. For those just joining us, I believe the picture that set off the frenzy can be seen at the very start of the post marked “Swimsuit.”

Aw screw it, it’s too hot for clicking around… I’ll do the work for you… see, big hair, remember?


The problem is, normally during the summer, I buzz my head. It’s a fun and easy process, only, now that I’m convinced I’m loosing my hair, I’m scared of what I might find if I went over the top with a number one attachment. Barber shops rarely do me right either; 9 times out of 10 I wind up leaving the place and running for my clipper anyway. Nope, this time, I figured I’d go to a salon… you know, do it up right. But where to go?

The place nearest my house didn’t look like they wanted my business.


Vidal Sasson is out of my price range.


And this place, one of the few places I’ve been to twice, gave me a bad hair-cut—twice.


Seriously, after wandering around all morning, things were looking grim. Eventually I steeled my nerves and made myself a promise; I’d let the very next hair place I walked past do their damage… no matter what.

Go figure.



Now before we go any further, there are a few things you should know.

ONE: Lugo’s wouldn’t let me shoot inside.

TWO: Lugo’s doesn’t cut hair.

THREE: The Meca of Hair is the most amazing place on earth. It’s where stylists go to buy real human hair to put on other people’s heads and inside it kind of looks like a bank, only the tellers are organizing large piles of hair into more manageable denominations. 100% real human hair. Incredible. If you’re ever in the neighborhood I highly recommend you drop by, well worth the pilgrimage (or, Hajj, if you will).

AND FOUR: They seemed to know what it was I was after.
“You want to get your hair done?” the receptionist asked.
“Yes, I would like to get my hair did.”
“Right, I think the place you’re looking for is called Khamit Kinks. They’ll take care of you.”

Fair enough.


I was too stunned to take any pictures as the washer rattled several bottles, trying to figure out which would be best on my, er, unique head. But by the time I was sitting under the dryer, waiting for a chair to free-up, I started to relax some. I wonder if this is what Sprewell felt like his first time. Here we go…







See how fast it looks? That’s the magic of photography. In fact, it was just over five hours before my whole head was done. Five of the most painful hours of my life. Worse than any dentist appointment. Worse than any tattoo (including the one drilled into the bottom of my foot). I’m willing to go so far as to say I’ve never felt pain quite like this before… as my scalp stretched tighter and tighter, there was actually a moment where I worried that my eyebrows might never come down again.







On the other hand, five hours meant plenty of time to get to know my stylist Angel (she asked not to be photographed but she had a beautiful face, a warm smile and nimble fingers capable of inflicting mind-bending pain… I’m just sayin’). She had had some “white-head” experience from hair-school so she knew what she was in for… I told her some things, she told me some things (don’t worry Angel you’re secrets are safe), it was fun.







Quick, who do I look more like: Method Man or a girl on spring break?





Anyway, I had some more errands to run, but I decided to make a pit-stop for my own rendition of that D’Angelo naked video.







Wait, a minute, I can’t go out in the street like this…



That’s better. Think the outfit’s loud enough to draw attention from my fresh rows?



I sure hope so… I’m off to the Bronx. (Really, remember that day Grant and I spent moving furnature—see STORY: 4th, 5th, whatever... we rented the truck in the Bronx and I never got my license back) Seriously, maybe that’ll be my next post—or my ultimate undoing. Either way, wish me luck.