By The Qwertz
As the days passed and the depression set in that I’d have no further episodes of Blowout to see, I figured I’d treat myself to a bit of reality show “realism.” A confluence of events came about: the holiday weekend approached, my hair was very long, I hadn’t produced a final recap for my dear readers and finally the weekend would mark the first weekend of The Qwertz’s coast-to-coast birth month celebration. Yes, I have multiple parties over the month, hell, if I’m steadily increasing in age, I ought to enjoy doing so! As a treat, my dear sister suggested I hop on out to Los Angeles and book a cut with one of the chumps from the Jonathan Salon.
What did I experience? Why were there hair terrorists at Prada on Rodeo? Would Jonathan and the bambino be present? Find out after the jump.As I said, I had gone approximately four weeks, and my hair was a bit unruly. After some convincing/conniving by my sister I made the call to Jonathan Salon in Beverly Hills. OOOH, they answered the phone, which shouldn’t be so shocking since it is a business, however unanswered phones wouldn’t be a total shock. Some lady answered “Jonathan Salon” and OMG IT WAS JUST LIKE IT SOUNDED ON TELEVISION.
I was sort of thrown off for a second when she asked who I’d like to see? Well after some stuttering and internal monologue I settled on SCOTT. Ah yes, dear reader—for you I was willing to subject myself to a voice I generally prefer to hear via subtitles. I hung up, and I was shaking, it was as though the power of Christ compelled me. Or it was day 4 of Starbucks withdrawal.
In the intervening two weeks, however, ah yes, it should be noted, business may be booming but I still had to book at least three weeks in advance when I went to the Arrojo Studios in NYC… anyhow, I was still stuck with messy, frizzy and long (for me) hair. Oh what to do.
A Sephora had just opened up near me, so I trekked over during lunch one day to buy the oft
discussed maligned and never imitated DIRTTM, (well and some moisturizer as The Qwertz doesn’t tolerate dry skin).
I go home later that day, and my hair looks like crap, I mean SERIOUSLY:
Taken that morning when I woke up, and no, I don’t care for bananas.
So I take out my box of DIRT TM and do a HOT product shoot, so here is DIRT TM in its élément normal:
OOOH, pretty… shiny box… HEY, let’s go ride bikes!
Eager with anticipation, I tear back the top to reveal what this treasure holds, would it be a ten-thousand-dollar bejeweled brooch? Would it be Cicely Tyson’s hat? Oh, ummm….
What the f)(*&%#?!
Great. It’s LITERALLY dirt. I just spent 25 god(*&#Q(^%% mother (@*&#%(*^ dollars on 16 cubic inches of DIRT.
Upset, I decide to take a shower. When I return, having calmed myself with a nice bath drawn by Calgon, I look around in the kitchen, but there is no DIRTTM. I search high and low. Nothing. Was it a dream? Am I in an episode of Ally McBeal? Wandering around my house with an obvious confused look, the cleaning lady approached and asks what’s wrong. I inform her that my box of dirt has gone missing and as soon as the words come out of my mouth I feel like an idiot. Why would a 25 going on 26 year old be missing a BOX OF DIRT?
Much to my surprise she said “I moved, dirt doesn’t belong in the kitchen mister!” Yes, she’s a bit sassy, and that’s part of her charm. ANYHOW, she drags me outside the front door and what do I find but this:
What love I’ve lost has now been found!
Truly, dirt in its élément normal.
Amused, I snap a few photos of the happy box (giggle) and the content flowers. I see if the columbines (née Aquilegia caerulea) prefer this dirt over run of the mill sweat-shop dirt. They don’t seem to mind.
Suddenly I have this odd sensation of wet sandpaper on my toes, and I look down and realize I had dozed off between throwing the box of DIRTTM on the counter and my shower. “Oops.” Luckily my trusty dog Stella McCartney Sarsgaard (yes, really) woke me up, lest she lets me forget my mission: PERFECT HAIR.
Stella McCartney Sarsgaard, just because
Famished, I am distracted by hunger pangs and string cheese. OOOH, Cheese Nips! Where was I? Ah the shower is out but perfect hair is still the order of the day. I un-meta-physically-physically flip back the lid and lo and behold, what a pretty product package! Scott at Zorbit: good show I say:
Wow, good taste and he didn’t even go to beauty school!
I dip my fingers in and it has a waxy texture, which I am VERY weary of. The Qwertz does not care for waxy product that does not wash out and has even a remote chance of clogging pores. Alas, I submit my bod for the study of science. I apply and play with my hair which is long, unruly, frizzy and pretty stupid looking (see portrait above). After some magic fingers, I am moderately pleased with the results:
Bonus points to the person who correctly names the artist of the print behind me
Oh, what is this? No frizz, easy hair? Perfect? Eh, I don’t think hair can ever truly be perfect, but that is a philosophical discussion I shall not engage in here. Let’s make fun of someone! How about my dog, she ran after a skunk two days later. Dumb dog.
You smell Stella McCartney Sarsgaard.
So now it turns out the DIRTTM actually works well in my hair and washes out easily. Moreover, it even succeeds in its mission to make your hair feel the way it does the day after washing it! All of this is no easy task for a mane as thick and unruly as mine, I tried to grow it out a few years back, and this is what they made from my hair:
But hey, you should hear the tone it draws in the Bach Six Suites for Cello—ENCHANTING!
Finally I made the quick jaunt out to Los Angeles a few days later. The day of the cut arrived much too quickly, and I was oddly nervous. Why? It couldn’t be because I skewered these people so much, could it? Nah, I was just hungover.
m_ruv, B-Side, J-Unit, Jash, and The Qwertz at the Legends Ball Afterparty
That morning I don’t know what to do with my hair. I throw some DIRTTM in it, but the hair is so long and literally fighting me, I give up. B-Side and I head out to Beverly Hills. We park and make our way down Rodeo Dr., where The Qwertz has some shopping to do. We only have time for Prada (who doesn’t?). Alas, I am not in need of a $4,000 bag since I recently purchased a bag at this party.
Hanging my head in PhilShameTM because of my hair at first, I was surprised by the unnecessary self-flagellation! I have no reasons as to why there were hair terrorists staked out at the Prada. But oh how they were aplenty. I know the weak dollar means the foreigners can visit and shop on the cheap, but please—THE HAIR! What I do know is they all looked disapprovingly on B-Side’s Tevas. Yes, I unwittingly desecrated the Prada store with my accomplice’s TEVAS. Oh the humanity. To make amends I submit this:
Please forgive me Miuccia!
Finally B-Side and The Qwertz moseyed on over to Jonathan Salon, which has an interesting overhang that B-Side was none to shy to capture a pic of:
Stylish, but what lies beneath?
Opening the door I was hit with a wave of sound, it was SO. LOUD. Maybe it’s my advancing age and I can’t deal with the way you kids listen to loud music anymore… but combined with all the
chit chat gossip and music and blow dryers, OH MY! I check in with the lovely women at the front desk, including Alyn, who had some seriously white highlights going on. I checked in and turned around to sit in the waiting area as I had ten minutes to wait. Not really looking around because I wasn’t ready to take it all in, I buried my nose in a Vanity Fair and traded offhand witticisms with B-Side when we were interrupted by an assistant offering us some water. I asked for Beauty WaterTM, though they were evidently out that day.
We sit. We wait. We almost fall asleep because the white leather couches in the waiting area are phenomenally comfortable. The thing about the shop front is it is just one giant glass curtain, so you can easily see out and the occasional passersby can easily see in. Well I saw SCOTT walk up to the shop and was thinking to myself “BRACE! BRACE! BRACE!” and ten seconds later IMPACT. “Hiiii, you must be [The Qwertz]” as he extended his hand.
Ok, he’s short. Yes, we know this and I have the backup to stand by such a statement of fact. I stick out my hand to shake his as I stand up, but the thing was I felt like I never stopped standing up. I just kept getting taller and taller and taller. Oy vey!
I leave B-Side at the front to listen in on other conversations—some may call this “eavesdropping,” well the President calls it the “War on Terror,” so you can all thank B-Side for doing his part. I am taken back to the corner where SCOTT’S station is. I plop down in his chair and as he steps on that lever thing, I realize the chair is already all the way down, so I immediately slump down in the chair so he can at least see the top of my head. Well, he sticks his hands in my hair and remarks on the thick, lush nature of my hair and how I must be a virile horse of a man.
Ok, maybe he didn’t say the last part, but it was still shock and awe in re my hair density. Seriously folks, its alotta hair. Well after a few minutes of discussing what I’d like: “a side part updo”—just kidding, I was only looking for “short, very textured on top, fun and the sides brought in.” After some more head massaging, he passes me off to the girl who initially brought my water when I was seated on the couch. We’ll call her Brindy.
So Brindy takes me over to the wash basins, and I suddenly realize its not that I am a true mongoloid-Andre-the-Giant-hybrid, but everything in the salon is airplane-sized, meaning built for short people. Seriously, I couldn’t lean back in the seat and keep my feet on the foot rests, rather my feet rested flat on the floor. So there I was flailing around awkwardly while my head from the neck up was immobile from resting in the washbasin and the rest of my body did some sort of bizarre interpretive dance. Think Elaine in Seinfeld but with more gusto, and on a reclined plane.
Brindy continues washing, and massaging and washing, and massag—what? My massage session has been interrupted by some chump leaning over me asking if Brindy can wash his client when she’s done washing me. I look up, as water runs down my face I see it’s Jonathan. Ha! Of course, to look up, I have to move my legs, and in uncrossing them I almost kick him in the groin. “Oops.” Alas, I just look at who is talking and interrupting my wash, and he is looking at me like he has to put dirt in my hair ASAP. It was a weird moment. I apologise for almost kicking him and he’s like “its alright bro.”
Finally Brindy is done washing and towel-drying my hair, and as I awkwardly sit up, I turn my gaze forward, but who is looking RIGHT AT ME? Yes, Jonathan, from the front of the salon. Stop. After a momentary game of chicken, I realize I am not 14 so I end the game, stand up, and return to SCOTT’S station, sit down, slouch, wash rinse repeat.
Jonathan staring. And there was no Pussycat Dolls playing, luckily.
So SCOTT gets going on my haircut, and we engage in small talk whereupon I reveal too much about myself—which is in fact based in psychological research because we apparently put trust in the people who do our hair. Plus I have a tendency to ramble and don’t enjoy silent moments in the conversation when engaged with a total stranger. Our conversation varied from movies (I fell asleep during X-men) to the bars in WeHo, to restaurant recommendations, to dining options and so on and so forth.
The conversation is rather just a series of statements when taken on their own really don’t make sense, but when brought together make no sense. Then OMG OMG OMG OMG Jason sets up and is doing a clients hair one chair over. Seriously, its like the whole gang is in. And who is that walking behind me? Why yes, Rosie, the salon manager supreme. Jonathan soon follows after her and of course he is looking in the mirror at my hair, DIRT, MUST HAVE MORE DIRT BRO.
Meanwhile, up front, B-Side has an awkward moment as he sits there fake reading Vanity Fair while listening in to hear what Kelly (of the blonde hair and giant breasts) was talking with her client about. Suddenly Kelly proclaims, “well that’s because all men in LA are assholes” just as she turns and looks at B-Side. I still think she could sense he was wearing Tevas, but nonetheless it was awkward.
Back in the chair, I learn a bit more about SCOTT: he played soccer his whole life because his dad was one of those crazy soccer dad coaches, then SCOTT said became a cheerleader—which makes sense as I know he’d be very easy to toss because HELLO, skinny people go higher. SCOTT is from Rhode Island and is Portuguese, sadly I didn’t have my phrasebook handy to test him. SCOTT something or other, and something else. I cannot recall because I am horrible at details but it was charming, I’m sure. At this point B-Side ventures back, bored because he’s been up front for a good hour. B-Side plops in the open chair next to us and joins us in conversation and to take pictures. (As SCOTT glares down at B-Side’s awful Tevas)
Ok people, I know I have a big head, but it’s the perspective making it look larger! Honest!
SCOTT gives me a Blowout and asks how I want my hair, but before I can say anything he says “or like this because it was so cute when you came in.” HA, he said my hair was CUTE (I haven’t washed it since). So he stands there rubbing his hands through my hair as we discuss what to do to my hair, and I am not at all particular and he just stands there rubbing my head—but hey, I don’t care, I love head massages. That’s why I fly Virgin Atlantic Upper Class and, you know, for the on-board bar and hot flight attendants.
Finally I stand up and ask for a photo, since I know my sister and Stella McCartney Sarsgaard would be in stitches, and before I can even compose myself he’s wrapped his arms around me and is ready. Umm, ok I guess I am too.
Now before I show you the picture, I thought I’d provide a bit of perspective. I am 6-2 and about 190lbs, and here is The Qwertz in the middle of the photo below at his 25th birthday last year having a few drinks and sharing a couple of laughs with two good friends:
Friend X, The Qwertz and Wife of Friend X
Now, why would I bother with providing a bit of perspective? Because when I saw the photo, I looked like Andre the Fu*king Giant:
Would you like some peas or green beans while I’m up here?
SERIOUSLY, what’s with that photo?!?! I could only laugh about it really. He doesn’t seem that small in person.
Prior to my leaving, I critically reviewed my cut with SCOTT and I was very satisfied with it so much so that I may start seeing SCOTT regularly instead of seeing my normal guy in NYC at Robert Kree.
Also, and on a more unfortunate note for my bag of parlour tricks, I’ll have to retire the name SCOTT. Why? Simple really: Scott was extraordinarily nice, amusing, and hilarious (at times, please, I’m not that easy to entertain), with a sunny disposition and also very cute and had this whole pocket gay thing going on. Combine that with his talent you have a great package. And you know his voice isn’t even that grating—I feel like it was similar to sushi. You are hesitant because it seems abhorrent at first, then you try it a few times and eventually it doesn’t bother you and then you start to quite like it—yes, in a fun amusing sort of way. Get a few drinks in him, and you can just tell he’d be awesome to go bar-hopping with.
So I can be the bigger person (you think that’s amusing? SHOVE IT) and admit that I was totally wrong about Scott—well except that line about how I don’t think he’s on top of anything—that was reaffirmed. Moreover, once I left the salon and I sent him a message and or random questions via myfriendsterspaceconnexion.org.com.va he always replied with helpful information.
So that’s it my friends. I went the distance for you subjecting myself to Jonathan Salon, desecrating the house of Prada and even going out to the Abbey that night to take pictures of Dancing With the Stars dancing professionals.
As B-Side took the photo he said to Louis Van Amstel “Every time I hear ‘The Final Countdown’ I think of you and Lisa Rinna.” Not at all weird.
And who knows, if you see The Qwertz and my new ‘do in Denver, New York, Boston, Washington DC, or the Big Island on one of my coast-to-coast birthday stops, say hello! Until then, stay classy TVgasm readers.