Gleaming the Cube
and Real Genius are the worst
possible things for a young, chubby, pre-adolescent to see. The hair styling of those two characters is
completely unattainable. Newtowns theory
on gravity may well of been lost to time if he had born to see Val’s and Christian’s locks before that apple
fell out of the tree. One would need at
least 3 stylists, 4 gallons of hair spray, hundreds of takes, and countless cups of a good greaseless pomade
to get that. An army of scissor clad assistants with
greasy palms was vital to position each hair just so, but to an ignorant child
of the 80’s, with a blossoming need for female attention, this styling was
attainable. There was hope for the hair.
My quest began with the turn of the key, and countless bottles
of Vitalis. After an hour, the spray
nozzle would cease up and pouring would commence. Compulsion and a huge boner compelled me to lock
myself in our one bathroom trying to position each hair follicle perfectly as
my poor father banged on the door persuasively. However his endless pleading found
no fans and no hope. In my obsessed mind,
him and his overactive bladder could easily use the kitchen sink. Having suffered in later years from prostate
cancer, lord knows how he needed to relieve himself, yet the pursuit of perfect
hair would remain his bladders nemesis for years to come. The mirror became my front line, and visions
of Christian Slater looking dough eyed at his Asian love interest fanaticized
my young brain. The perfect angular
vectors of those locks could not be overcome.
The sheen and coloring of those
follicles beckoned me to pursue them. They became my rallying cry for my own
personal hair jihad, as the banging on the bathroom door grew louder and louder.
Deeply entrenched in front of the mirror, waiting for what
alcoholics call “a moment of clarity” became my modus operandi. The
vision of Val stepping proudly into the pool party scene with 2 hot chicks near
the 73rd minute of Real Genius
became my El Dorado, my city of gold. Hours would fade away, and screams of
agony would reverberate through the parking lot in our tiny apartment complex
terrorizing animals and the elderly alike.
It still doesn’t look like Val’s!!!!I was an artist damn it, hell bent on
hair. Fear, exhaustion and hunger would
wash over me as minutes, turned into hours. Sweat would pour down my scalp
stinging my eyes and ruining my monumental hair gains. My hands would become
caked in gel, and chapped from the wide array of chemical compounds found
within those shiny, glittery pomades, that today in Mexico are no doubt used in
meth labs. Breathing became labored from
all the aerosol, and a few blackouts did occur, but those minor “speed bumps”
could not stop this Ghetto Superstar. A
religious fervor enveloped me like a bible wielding preacher hell bent on being
hell bent. Another 3 minutes….that’s all we need and that cowlick will be suitably
in place. THEN….we can eat breakfast.
After 2 years, my poor scalp became a wasteland of broken
dreams, and dandruff, but my struggle persevered. A persistent
eye twitch soon developed, born no doubt of the permeation of such stated
compounds through my scalp into my brain effecting my motor function, but even
Mozart had his bad days. The screams and
banging by my family members on our one bathroom door was a constant nag, yet
the dream lived on. Focus, and hair gel remained my closest allies. They pushed me to dig deeper, to stay in front of
the mirror just a little longer. I wasn’t
just out too look good anymore, but to redefine what the meaning of perfect
hair was. But alas, after the age of 13
and the discovery of marijuana, the pursuit was abandoned. The bathroom door magically opened, and out
emerged a new me. The gels and mousses lost their luster. Hair styles changed, and my personal hair jihad
went out with a whisper.
To this day, I am scared by the image of perfect hair. Images of Josh Duhamel in NBC’s long
forgotten semi-hit “Las Vegas” have me reaching for the bottle. How in god’s name can they ban Catcher in the Rye, but allow Gleaming
the Cube to be shown on TNT? To
think of the thousands of hours lost in front of the mirror. The millions of
brain cells gone from the over application of L.A. Looks. My scalp mutilated by combs to the point
where medicated shampoos became a necessity to bring back my Ph balance. The least they could do is add a warning label
to all digital and hard copies of those movies.
“Do Not Attempt” or “Impossible Hair” should do.
