He made me want to be a gay man

I've spent 8.5 hours in hair salons in the last three days. To say I experienced a hair trauma is quite the understatement. I went into my regular salon for a regular cut and color. For whatever reason - the stars were misaligned, it was a full moon, I just don't know - but she decided to try some new product and technique on me without asking me.

My hair turned gold and brassy. Not Oscar statue gold, but tarnished stair railings at a museum that haven't been shined up in ages brassy.

I went back the next day - over three hours and 4 painful treatments later - my head was burned and blistered and the top of my head was yellow. I looked like a distraught Bozo the Clown.

The canary yellow hair can only be described as the following: picture a 55 year old, 3-pack a day smoker, wearing a stained powder blue tank top, gulping box wine sitting outside her trailer home not even bothering to wonder if something better was out there in the world - sporting a dried out home perm gone wrong with empty peroxide bottles at her feet. That's how bad it was.

I took my over processed head home for the evening with the anticipation of one more appointment the next day to get it all fixed. But the circle of trust had been broken and I couldn't handle one more hair experimentation gone wrong. I needed certainty that I wouldn't be having to wear a baseball hat for the next 3 months until is grew out.

I called up my favorite pretty boy Krav friend. I pleaded with him to help me figure out what to do. He was all about the solution. He knew exactly how to take charge and get it done. He hooked me up with his master stylist who promised he would take a look and be able to make some recommendations.

Off to Hillcrest, San Diego's artsy, eclectic liberal area, I went. When I walked in gasps of horror and amazement abounded and the gaping stares assured me that I was indeed akin to a circus freak. We consulted and they all agreed on what steps needed to be taken to rectify the unflattering situation. They wouldn't allow me to leave the salon looking like that so they were kind enough to fit me in. I just had to wait for a few minutes.

That turned out to be the best part of the whole experience.

I watched these beautiful men glide in and out of the salon and putter about making coffee and small talk. Everyone was greeted with kisses and hugs. I sat in the front of the salon in a huge bay window - as if on display for a before picture. But I also got to watch all the foot traffic on the streets. Oh my, what a show.

Everyone sported perfectly fitted jeans that hugged their man trophies in all the proper places. Supremely sculpted tushes surrounded my every visual pattern. I sat there and openly gawked at the wonderfully styled men and their long muscled limbs prancing back and forth. They were all so pretty.

My stylist was like King of the Manor and wooed me with his warm sense of humor and hard body. He had this sexy, confident voice that commanded respect. I felt like an awkward kid at the 8th grade school dance when he spoke. His easy smile drew me in and captivated me. My brazen and blunt communication style seemed a perfect match and we bonded instantly. The gossip flowed and we swapped stories like two long lost college buddies. He made my traumatic situation bearable and actually enjoyable in the end.

At the shampoo bowl I found myself locked onto his pulsating biceps that hung right at eye level as he gently massaged my aching scalp. As if on instinct, I reached up and slowly traced the smooth bulging muscle. Bold move? Maybe - but he loved it! He enjoyed the compliment and I sighed inward, knowing that wanting that bicep was a wasted dream.

What a fantastic salon experience. The people were so down to earth in a pretending not to be pretentious sort of way. And it actually worked. They were all so unique and it blended into this amazing family rainbow of absurd and wonderful personalities, each one warmer and friendlier than the next.

So is there actually a lesson in all this? Perhaps it was fate that my hair was about to fall out and I turned to my fantastically coiffed friend to direct me away from my chemical over-processing dependent hairstylist to his hip and exciting salon filled with visual enticements.

With so much eye candy to stimulate each fiber of my being, it's no wonder I had a brief jealous moment of wishing I was a gay man.