TVgasm Enters the Realm of Jonathan Antin - 
by Guest Columnist
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 oftdiscussed 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.
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