Metrosexuals and Mood-Swings

(found this in my archives, and I’m posting it, a year or so later than intended with some slight amendments!)
This post has gone through several incarnations for titles, most noticeably “Barbershop Blues” & “Stylist Faux Pas”.
I am not one prone to getting hair cuts, the only time I would visit the barber, or as I refer to him now, stylist, is when someone comments on the length of my hair. I take the utmost pride in maintaining a decent style, and do not believe in the misconception that long hair is only for hippies. However, I cannot change societies views in merely a day. Although, during university I did partake in my own research that lasted for four years, to disprove the notion that guys with long hair are air-heads, sissies, or misfits. Nothing was more wondrous than watching a professor address as me as though I were a fool, only to be dumbfounded at my response. The tale for this escapade shall be entitled “Talking at Me”, and will soon follow this one, which is about Hair.
Once upon a time I went to get my hair done. Like all guys now, I picked up my phone, called my stylist, made an appointment, and one hour later, and several pictures afterward (I like to keep tabs on my different styles) went off to the Wizard of Oz.
Now, at first, I was surprised when I got there. See, I had this one stylist whom I had really gotten used to, been going to him for over 3 years now, his name is AbdelRahman, and he is a miracle worker. Never once had I left his chair upset and mind you, I am a tough cookie to please. My most recent hairpisode (hair-episode) was 4 years ago, the week before my brother’s wedding, I was coerced into getting a haircut, and going to someone I did not know, but had heard decent stories of, was shocked when he ruined my then perfect (to me) hair. I threw a tantrum, and cried, yes, cried at this massacre. I even entertained the thought of running away from home for the night, but instead took to locking myself in my room. Mind you, I was 21 at the time.
I digress.
AbdelRahman had told me a while ago that he was done with Kuwait, and was moving back to his native Turkey. He then introduced me to his protege, Ali, who became my new miracle worker. And since that time, I had been visiting him regularly, and enjoying the experience.
I have a confession, I am a metrosexual.
*dumb-founded pause*
The dictionary defines a metrosexual as “An urban-living fashion-conscious man; a heterosexual with many attributes commonly attributed to gay men.”
I enjoy being well-groomed. I keep my finger-nails neat, I exfoliate. I brush my teeth 3 times a day. I make sure to always clean in and around my ears, as well as breath-check to ensure I do not have bad breath. Not to mention body odor, I always make sure that I do not carry a stench.
I also, on occasion, straighten my hair (my well kept secret has now been made public to strangers, interesting). As a baby, I had a gorgeous head of hair, unfortunately, my dad made the mistake of taking me to a The Demon Barber of Fleet-Street, who cut my dreams short, to turn-a-phrase. My hair is not awfully curly, it is just not to my liking; it is the plight of all humanity, the straight haired persons wish to have curls, whilst the curly-fries wish their hair were straight. If only there were a way to exchange scalps, like in Face-Off.

So, now I called Ali and made an appointment, and when I got there, who should I run into? AbdelRahman! He was back in Kuwait! And free, as Ali had a customer. Now, I am unsure if I crossed an unwritten code of ethics, by making an appointment with one, only to go to another. I did not want Ali to be mad at me, as he was great for his stint. But AbdelRahman was my regular stylist. What do you think?

I asked him this, and he assured me that his fellow countryman would hold no grudge. I am aware that stylists (the term “Barber” to me is nothing short of barbaric, and should not be associated with this new breed, who take care of hair, as opposed to just fleecing it off like sheep or goat herders) “rent” their chairs from the owner, and pocket part of their pay as commission, so to book one, and go to another, is an opportunity cost. You had entered into an oral contract with the former, and are obliged to honor it. I was happy to hear that was not the case.
As always, I was thrilled with my new look, I went from emo to suave. Try as you may, your hair will never look as good as the first hour outside the Barber Shop.
If any be interested to sample what these Scissor-Sorcerers have to offer, their shop is very easy to locate; it is in Jabriya, right across from McDonalds, at the turn with the Gulf Bank on one side, they are on the other. Just ask for either AbdelRahman or Ali. Give them my regards.

 

If caring about my appearance in this society makes me gay, then slap a pink shirt on me and call me Roberto (no offense to anyone reading this called Roberto).
There is however, a fine line between stylish and self-obsessed. You have but to visit the malls here in Kuwait to know what I am talking about. Despite my near-obsession with how my hair looks (I go as far as “shadow-styling”) I never spend more than 10 minutes getting it done. I rarely use gel, as I am told it kills the follicles. But the guys in the malls with the wax jobs, the hair down their ears, the “anime” hairstyles, and even those with that girlie thing that looks like a tiara but holds back hair, I have no idea what that is called, someone please clue me in, but that, to me, is one step closer to “faaaaabulous” than manliness. Anything, in excess, is a bad thing.
Am I holding a double standard? I think not.

August 2011 ( View complete archive page )

September 2011 ( View complete archive page )

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