Trial by Scissor ...
To start with: my hair has always been ... problematic.
When I was about four years-old, I had braids. A very Lakota thing and I was fine with that. Then, my dad had his first major heart-attack and the doctors told my mom that he'd need a lot of care. So deciding that she couldn't take care of her husband and my hair at the same time, she braided my hair one last time and clipped them off.
Since then, I've had a hell of a time getting my hair just right. I regrew my hair long between the end of my sophomore and start of my junior year in college, but the magic was gone. So I've generally opted for short-ish hair and it's always been a battle of wills between the side of me that wants something revolutionary and unique and the side that gets lazy about my hair.
I've only had one haircut that I absolutely loved and that was after months going to the same stylist when she was finally like, "Eureka!" And then I left Sioux Falls for Reno. But I haven't found a decent stylist in Reno.
Mostly, it's been me going to local barbers and meeting the same kind of woman. Not to be racist, but it's always a Hispanic woman who grew up in a culture where it's beyond unthinkable to place her opinion of hairstyle above the man's. So usually it plays out like this:
Stylist: How you want your hair?
Me: Uh, I don't know. Short, I guess. But not too short. Long on top with short sides and back. Do you know what I mean?
Stylist: Jes, okay.
And then I always have to fake smile and tip her, walking away disappointed.
But that all changed, or so I thought, when I met Kate. She works at Images, the salon my former boss, Ally, goes to and personally styles Ally's hair. And Ally has a generally punk aesthetic, so I knew that I'd be getting someone who didn't use electric clippers to give me that Peter Jennings/John Edwards look.
We gabbed and gabbed about my getting fired, my need for change, et cetera. She was so good that I failed to notice she hadn't asked me what style I'd like. Then the end came and she handed me my glasses.
Lo and behold, I had a faux-hawk.
Get this again, a faux-hawk.
And I like it, it's not me, but I like it. Basically because it is new and different for me. But still, I have visions of Sophia Lamar hearing that another gay man got a faux-hawk and charging her way toward my front door, scissors in hand as she yells, "I hate faux-HAWK!"
Allow me to illustrate my frustration and ultimate resignation to a trend:
This was one of my first "professional" photos from my Reznet blogging days.
Yeah, I hadn't gotten my first Argus check yet. Thus, the hair apathy.
And fugly glasses.
Don't ask me to explain the excess fat.
And then, I got willfully careless about my hair.
After that, I let my friend Melanie go at it with just a pair of scissors and no clue.
Grand.
I let it grow out, but was still generally apathetic about its style and application.
And now, the hawk we call faux ...
I'm generally unaware of faux-hawk maintenance.
Is it supposed to look like that?
Anger: "I have a faux-hawk!"
Bartering: "Maybe if I give myself cancer, my faux-hawk will disappear?"
Acceptance: "Fine, I have a faux-hawk."
Rejection: "Nah, I like this classic better. There's more movement!"
So yeah, while the cut is still a faux-hawk, I've decided to only use it when I'm feeling ironic.