Once upon a time, I weighed 220 pounds. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a big lard ass. I was, other than a layer of sodium bloat, solid muscle. Now, to give you a frame of reference for how big I was at that weight, I currently weigh about 170. I’m not skinny, but I’m not a giant guy either. My pics on here make me look bigger than I really am. But they say that pixels add 15 pounds. Who knows. Anyway, back in the bodybuilding days I had, as I have always had, issues with my hair. For much of my “career” as an unpaid seeker of hugeness, I sported a flattop. Yes, your basic jarhead deluxe. No, I was never in the military. It was just easy and um, stylish. It didn’t require gel, or hairspray, or even mousse. It required wax. And no, I don’t mean some waxy pomade that comes in a little jar. I mean a hard, thick, sticky, stick of wax that you rubbed on your head like a roll on deodorant. That shit put your hair into position and held it tighter than than a virgin butthole grips my finger. That’s tight. Take my word for it. The great thing was that it didn’t look like you had any product in your hair. It was like Harry Potter waved his wand and screamed, “dominus coiffedom”, springing my hair into a sturdy high and tight.

So far I’ve used the phrases:

“hard, thick, sticky stick”

“rubbed on your head”

“a sturdy high and tight”

I won’t even mention the finger in the butthole statement. Or that I’m writing this while drinking my morning coffee in a pair of assless chaps. Perhaps today isn’t ThursDAY. Perhaps it’s ThursGAY. yuk yuk. Ok, I am not, in any way, shape or form GAY. I’m just not. No, “he doth protest too much” isn’t applicable here. I never, NEVER let anyone stick anything in my ass unless she’s a girl. See, straight as an arrow.

Back to my hair…

Eventually I got bored and decided I was going to grow my hair out. Not to a normal length but LONG. Like, at least shoulder length long. Maybe longer. I don’t know. Why put restrictions on bad hair judgement? I mean, balls to the wall, right? I’d be like Conan the Midget Barbarian. I could wear it in a pony tail when I worked out and sometimes, when I was feeling crazy, I could put it up under a baseball cap and unveil it on unsuspecting women who would swoon when they saw my Fabio-like locks fall.

I’ve mentioned my questionable judgement, no?

So it started to grow. You can’t imagine the fucked up retardedness of my “in between” phase. There was nothing, and I mean NOTHING, I could do with my hair. And this wasn’t back in the day where having fucked up looking hair was stylish, like it is now. I mean every emo kid on Myspace has greasy, goofy looking hair and girls are like, “He’s so rad. He just doesn’t care about the normal rules. He’s too dark, deep and moody to worry about things like his hair.” (Maybe he should worry about washing it every so often. When did greasy translate to sexy?). Well, it grew, and it grew, and it grew, and it grew. Luckily I have VERY healthy hair. But I took great care of it, like a fragile orchid that requires constant love, attention and just the right amount of leave in conditioner. Now, one day I woke up and realized that I had, overnight, grown out of that awkward in-between phase. It was a new era of peace and hair harmony. It had only grown to reach just below my chin, if that. But it was hot. I mean, cheesy, 90’s hot, but hot nonetheless. And I didn’t have to put a single rubber band on my head. But I did, in fact, have a system to get the locks into the appropriate style. A step-by-step process to perfection of the scalp covering. Today, for the first time, I will disclose this valuable secret to the world. Please keep in mind, this was for a Friday night out on the town.

Step 1- Wash hair on Wednesday.

Step 2- Do not wash again before Friday.

Step 3- During pre-party shower on Friday, rinse hair, but do not wash.

Step 4- Get out of shower and lightly towel dry hair.

Step 5- Shave face, apply lotion to entire body, get fully dressed

NOTE: Getting fully dressed is imperative, particularly if I was going to wear any type of pullover shirt. If I was going to wear a button up, I could hold off on donning it. Or, I could put it on but not button it up. Really, this was one step that had multiple options depending on wardrobe.

Step 6- Once hair has reached approximately 60 percent dry, strictly via air drying, apply a nickel sized dab of Paul Mitchell’s “The Conditioner” and work through hair, making sure each and every individual strand is coated.

Step 7- Using an old school black comb, the kind the Fonz kept in his pocket, slick the hair back tight. Tight like a finger in a virgin butthole (we’ve been down THIS road before, haven’t we?)

Step 8- Allow to dry.

Now, Step 8 is imperative. My hair is full, luscious and, if given the opportunity, puffs up like a giant cotton ball or curls around the edges. Neither puffing nor curling is a desired outcome for my hair. So it must dry TIGHT against my head. That’s the only way for it to end up puffless and curl-less. The hair would be slicked so tight against my scalp that the mere movement of my overly expressive forhead could cause irreparable damage to the process of preparation leading up to that magic moment known worldwide and all around my head as…

The Reveal.

Yes, at the exact moment, which only months of practice, trial and error, plus an uncanny instinct for fantastical filiments, could make happen, I’d softly…slowly…gently run my fingers up the sides of my head from ears to the top of my skull where I’d pull my hands a few inches away from my head, hair between fingers, then let it fall, smooth as silk, to hang perfectly down to chin level. Then, I’d turn to my closest companian (typically Big Kev) and ask the most important question one could ever ask another human being…

“How’s my hair look?”

Invariably, if I’d followed procedure leading up to “The Reveal”, it would be perfect. The straightness, the body, the sheen and the shine would all combine in a commanding coiffure of magnificentness. When I’d enter whatever venue we’d decided to grace with our presence, all eyes would turn to my marvelous mane, conversations would cease and a collective sigh would elicit from the crowd. I’d give a little flip of my head, allowing some of my locks to swoop down over my face, causing all the women to spontaneously orgasm in their panties. And I would smirk a little smirk as I walked toward the bar for my first drink and think, just wait til next week world. When you will bear witness to the splendor of another Reveal.

A few years later I’d move to California and immediately get signed by a talent agent who, moments after offering to represent me said, “Have you ever thought of getting your hair cut short? It would look way better.”

The next day I went to a fancy hair salon in Beverly Hills and said, “Spikey…I want it spikey…”

This blog is dedicated to Sharoni.