Big Blonde Hair, Highlights and Frost Jobs

I spent a few years as a blonde. I've taken the journey from brassy to platinum, streaked to frosted. Some actually thought that I was a natural blonde - gosh, I'm flattered. The times that I had my blonde variations, my mom was so proud; our family is terribly deficient in blondes. She always dreamed of having a pug-nosed Aryan daughter. Genetically, this was close to impossible. But, the dye job brought me a lot closer to this ideal. She still displays a photo of me from 1996 that we affectionately refer to as the "Lady Di." When I look at my wedding pictures from February 2002, I really do look like a Jewish Barbie Doll, which is a bit of an oxymoron, I realize. Biscuit has certainly had his share of bowl cuts, shags and spikey up-do's and could write his own hair annals, since his notorious looks deserve their own column. Look for that in August.

Let me explain something about my longest stretch as a blonde - once you move to Atlanta, GA, you feel it incumbent upon yourself to do away with dark hair. You start with a few highlights (right Roach?), then move on to blonde panels, until finally you say "what the fuck" and let the Roach dunk your head in a vat of bleach. For those who don't keep up with our impressive roster of stylists, Roach was and still is an influential hairdresser in the pricey Buckhead neighborhood of Atlanta. She styles everyone from sorority sisters to lesbians with mullets to straight men who look like middle-aged women and lots in between. Over the course of our 5 years in Roach's often inebriated hands, we were regularly morphed into any of these archetypes.
Our chance encounter with Roach occured at an Inman Park porch party back in 2001, shortly after 9/11. At this point in history, the world needed more blondes. It was no time to look drab with untreated dark hair and unpainted toe nails. Look like that: the terrorists win. Back at the party, it was difficult not to notice a wildly intoxicated bodacious blonde in the crowd. Bisq actually recognized her from some topless toga party pics he had randomly seen a few months before at a friends' house. Fate brought us together, one might say. So began a 5-year friendship which involved many a drunken haircut and loads of other activities that could only be shared with someone as twasted and fun-loving as the Roach.

Back in Santa Fe, we had Bob D., a gay Texan cowboy who lived on Coke (the soft drink, not the powder) and Creatine supplements and also taught us Body Pump. Once, while teaching Body Pump, Bob informed the class that he was wearing a thong and requested that we not gaze up his shorts during the abs routine. Love it. Mix a West Texas son of a regional soft drink distributor with a lot of International Male garments, a few missing teeth and a keen interest in beautifying Santa Feans and you get Bob. He had some incredible erotic art in his townhouse, which was littered with empty Coke cans with cigarette butts floating in them. Bob started me off with a few highlights framing the face - a pretty conservative look. Mostly we liked having breakfast with him at Harry's Roadhouse after Body Pump class where he treated a whole table full of female fans...and Biscuit.
I remember showing Bob my engagement ring at his salon. Like a good gay man, he called everyone in the salon over to have a tearful gasp. He looked me in the eye and said, "Oh dorlin..." And he meant it. Before we moved to Atlanta, he taught Bisq how to do my highlights out on his porch, so we wouldn't have to suffer once we got to Atlanta.

For some reason, we've gotten into the habit of befriending and socializing with most of our hairdressers. Actually, it all started back in 1996 with a dude named Henry Falcon. We met him through my fashion-forward grandmother, Amma. Amma was pissed at her hair salon and decided to have Henry come to her house to get her weekly coif.
Henry, as you can see, was a skinny, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed stylist who resided on the West Bank (New Orleans, not Israel). Henry liked to hang out with my grandmother who could have also been described the same way about 40 years ago, except she never lived on the West Bank and she never cut hair. Henry had a crush on Biscuit, but I have yet to meet a gay guy who doesn't. He was so surly that it didn't really matter. In fact, if I've ever called any of you "saster," it was Henry who taught me how. It was a fun relationship which resulted in some twasted hairdos. Last I heard, Henry had married some older wealthy dude in Asheville, NC. Every time I've been in Asheville, I've looked him up in the phone book - but to no avail.

I have to give a quick shout-out to Blake's ex, Rachel Milham, who briefly styled my hair at Gerogie's salon in Kenner, LA. She introduced me to Velcro rollers, which I used for a few months to give me that just-got-back-from-the-prom look. I felt like JonBenet! It's worth mentioning that "Milham" is a respected surname in New Orleans. Her dad, Dan Milham, is the trusted weatherman on Channel 6. I was definitely impressed at Blake's score: less than five years in New Orleans and slapping skins with a Milham. Not only that, she had a tongue ring, drove a white Mitsubishi Eclipse and had a best friend named Hottsey. That's the stuff of legends in Kenner. Kudos, Binki.

Of all of the relationships one might forge over a lifetime, I do think it's worthwhile to get tight with a stylist. It's always served me and Bisq. Although, after looking over these glamour shots...you be the judge.