SALONS.

Props to Sam Chow & Sam Wheat (Ghost reference) for the killer hair.

There's something about salons that make me feel like a virgin (HEY!), touched for the very first time. A male's first time. Not that painful, bloody, emotional mess you ladies experience during your inaugural romp in the sack (or backseat of your parents car, or broom closet, or wherever the kids are banging these days). That's more like a trip to the dentist. 

"Who wants a filling!?"

About once every two months I nervously pick up the phone and arrange a boutique-call with my stylist. When the big day finally rolls around I stand in my closet for at least thirty minutes trying to decide what to wear (A decision that's usually dictated by what color will hide nervous belly sweat the best). I then spritz myself with cologne, take a final glance in the mirror and say, "Go get her, Tiger!"

Or lion.

Like most losses of virginity, I gave into the gentle caresses of a stylist as a result of low self-esteem. My emotionally tormented youth began with my first bite of cheeseburger. As my teeth tore through that delicious medley of bovine by-products, my body said goodbye to the chance of getting laid before the latter half of my high school career. By the time I was eight, I looked like I ate half of my classmates. Therefore, my hair was the least of my concerns (Unless it fell into my food. Then we got PROBLEMS!). 

I used to get my hair did at what our forefathers called, "barbers." Barbers have two specialties, bowl cuts and buzz cuts. I'm ashamed to say I've rocked both, or I guess I should say "rolled both," due to my rotund physique. But things changed in 11th grade. I decided I wanted to trade deliciously unhealthy food for the touch of a woman. After a summer of intensive training and a timely growth spurt, I was finally at a point where girls didn't cringe at the sight of me in a swimsuit. However, one problem persisted. My HAIR. 

My junior yearbook picture. CRIPES!

I remember the final straw like it was yesterday. The season was autumn, the skies were overcast, my hair was freshly butchered and the school was being evacuated due to a bomb threat. The single-file evacuation line was disrupted by a frienemy who broke form to sprint up to me and say, 

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR HEAD?". 
"Dude! Shut up!" I begged. "I got a haircut yesterday. PLEASE don't draw attention to it." 

He nodded in agreement and reoccupied his original place in line. Somehow I knew I hadn't seen the last of him. No sooner did we reach the government mandated safety distance, I was encircled by approximately a dozen of my male peers. 

"Oooooooh shit." I thought as they stoically surrounded me like a military battalion. 
"A-ten-HUT!" the previous provocateur yelled.

Like cooperative soldiers, each of the participating troublemakers gave me a strong salute, placing their hands in a straight line across their foreheads to resemble my bowl cut. With little else to do in the "safe zone" besides pluck blades of grass and play grab ass with one another, students from all grades began migrating over to see what all the laughs were about. People I didn't even know joined in on the joke. Before I knew it, I was staring into a sea of salutes.

I'm somewhat ashamed to admit this, but I cried. I cried like a little boy being picked on by his older brother. So who did I run to after the damage was done?

"I just became the laughing stock of the WHOLE SCHOOL!" I complained to my older sibling.
"Why?" He asked, already knowing the answer.
"My haircut!"
"Duh. I could have told you that." 
"Then why didn't you!?"
"Mom told me not to!"
"Mom knows!?"
"Mark, anyone with eyes can see that your barber used a razor and a popcorn bowl to mangle that mane."
"Well what do I do!?"
"Do you have fifty dollars?"
"Yeah."
"Then leave it to me."

Justin reached for his phone and dialed his stylist, Orlando (pronounced: or-LAWN-dough). 

"Get in the car." He commanded.
"But why?" 
"Because you look like a mushroom and unless that's how you want to be remembered for the rest of your high school career, I suggest you do as I say."

I did as he said. Moments later I was standing in the foyer of my first hair salon. The smell was vastly different from the burnt pubes and aftershave scent I had grown accustomed to at my regular barber shop.

"Welcome back, Justin. Is this the emergency you were talking about?" asked the ridiculously hot receptionist sitting at the front desk.
"This is it." Justin responded, gesturing to my head with both hands.
"Wow! You weren't kidding." she said after studying my dome.
"Barbers." Justin explained.
"Barbers." she confirmed.

We took a seat by a coffee table containing every fashion magazine known to (wo)man. A far cry from the Guns & Ammos and Motor Trends I was used to skimming at my regular chop shop. Before I could even open an issue of GQ, a gorgeous woman retrieved me from the leather sofa and led me to the shampooing station. She sat me down at a sink and began lathering my hair with her pleasantly boney fingers. It kind of tickled, but in a good way. So good, in fact, I had to cross my thighs. She left me in a trance of tranquility so deep, I hardly remember the haircut itself. The next thing I knew, I was being spun 180 degrees to see what was made of my "emergency."

I returned to school the following day ready to confront my critics head on. I waltzed up to the ring leader of yesterdays ridicule, tapped him on the shoulder and struck a Superman-esque pose.

"Hello, MATT."

He turned and assessed my new do.

"I see someone got their ears lowered." he acknowledged.
"That. I. Did." I responded with pride.

Matt paused for a moment, desperately trying to think of a new insult. He was stumped, or so I thought. 

"HEY EVERYBODY!" he screamed. "Mark got ANOTHER haircut! What a pussy!" he shouted while running around the pre-class common area.

That whole ordeal taught me two very important lessons. 1) There's no way to avoid grade school mockery. 2) If you're in need of a self-esteem boost, skip the insecurity sex and just book an appointment at a salon.