Let Me Cut Your Hair.

First off, let's just start by thanking Ken for his thought-provoking and turbulent post about me yesterday; he also named the other guys who write for this blog, but if you were me, or my mom, you stopped reading after my paragraph.  But here's the thing: not only am I a playwright and a songsmith, but I can also cut your hair...almost legally.

Once, when I was 21 and fresh-faced and fancy-free, I found myself wandering the halls of my local community college wondering how far my 'Intro to Music' and 'Film' classes would take me.  I was halfway though the semester and it was clear that I would not be passing either one, only because when I say wandering the halls of my local community college I mean lying face down in my pillow at noon.  So college was going to be a lot like high school, only they don't care if you come to class in college, because they want to charge you to take it again...it's okay to fail as long as you keep trying.

At some point, I must have gotten out of bed to get a haircut, 'cause I was at my friend's new studio getting my hair cut.  And you know how it is in a Salon, you're chatting and you're making the ladies laugh and they are all smiling at you and rubbing your head with fancy smelling potions and then boom, you find yourself interning as an apprentice sweeping up strangers' hair but getting an education.

It was great!  My dear friend from high school had recently gotten into the hair game, and somehow I convinced her to let me hang out the studio and do stuff.  Turns out if you hang out and do stuff long enough, you get a hair license and can charge people to ruin their lives.  With my academic career freshly flushed down the toilet, I was grateful for the focus my life had taken.     

It might have been four months, it might have been a year; as most of you know, there is no time at the hair salon.  But I sorta worked and I sorta cleaned and I sorta can now cut, dye, and blow out your hair.  Eventually, Pier 1 realized what an amazing and dynamic leader I was and they offered me full time employment and I had to choose: hanging out with the girls at the shop (which is also the premise of my TV sitcom vehicle that will one day make me my millions) or take a job that paid me.

Though it was short lived, I did learn enough to be the sole hair artist for my wife.  Though there are guys out there who would scoff, that decision alone has literally saved me thousands upon thousands of dollars. Wait, no really, ten years of free hair.  How much does a woman spend on hair in ten years?

I have real good stories from those days. Once, I ran a comb through my hair only to find out it was a texturing comb that cut my hair off exactly where I began combing... the root, at the front of my hair line.  Loads of others too, about mixing dyes, and spraying myself and my client and some other girl client with the shampooing hose that shot off like a furious cobra that had to be wrangled.  Nothing is as funny as ineptitude in a hair salon.

As for cutting your hair, well you take your hair into your own hands (sometimes literally). And because I am not licensed, I call myself a hair artist. An artist does not need to be fully trained or need to be sanctioned by the state. No. And I am neither. Also, like an artist I charge exorbitant fees and don't take direction.  When I'm done, then that's what I meant to do, and I don't really want to hear your thoughts on my art.  If you want to give your thoughts then you can take them over at Fantastic Sam's...they'd love to hear them.

Please leave your personal contact information in the Comments and a picture of your current hair mistake.  I will get to you on a need to save basis.

Thanks.

Michelle Obama's Not My Momma!

A few weeks ago, my mom casually tossed out that she thought she should get bangs.

"My hair just needs a bit of something; I think that something is bangs."

I should have, at that moment, pushed her face onto a cutting board, whipped out a cleaver and with one solid chop, gave the woman bangs.  It would have alleviated today's phone call...

"SHE STOLE MY BANGS! I can NOT believe it,  SHE STOLE...MY BANGS! I WAS GOING TO GET BANGS! I can't have no Democrat Bangs! Now everyone's dying over her Bangs and THOSE ARE MY BANGS! Now what am I going to do, that woman and her Stop-Feeding-Fat-Kids bangs, she looks ridiculous.  Oh, there they are in a close up, WE SEE THEM, WE GOT IT! THE FRONT PART IS NOW SHORTER THAN THE REST! Oh here we go, the President LOVES her bangs, I am sure, I am SURE he does. I thought he hated 'bangs'!  Get it? Gun Control?! Well now what?! What am I supposed to do with this mess!  I hate my hair, it's all long and parted to one side, I was growing it out so I could cut BANGS and now I'll just look like one of her minions, scalping themselves in adoration...you know, her arms have gotten fat, have you seen them? Did you notice?  I mean, the first inauguration  her arms were amazing, I'll give her that, but this go 'round, wheew, it was like a flying squirrel trying to get your attention. THAT'S why she got bangs, 'Look at my head, not my arms!' She probably walked into the Oval Office with a sleeveless shirt and Joe Biden was like, Woah, she's gonna need some bangs.' Well, I don't care. Everyone knows I was gonna get my bangs and that was way before all this "O-bang-a" garbage went down. My friend Georgia told me they would frame my face...NOW LOOK AT MY FACE! FRAMELESS! Who knows what I've got going on up there?! All this time I've been walking around smiling at people and they were thinking, "What was that?! Was that a face? Was that a painting?  Either way, that thing needs a frame!" I HATE THE DEMOCRATS! They are so selfish. Thoughtless.  You don't see Ann Romney stealing my bangs, NO! She swoops! Like any dignified woman in the public eye should. SWOOP MICHELLE, SWOOP! It's like that little girl from 'The New Girl' is running the country  It's fine for a dumb TV show but you are the Queen of America, SWOOP! I tell ya what, I am not gonna do it.  I can't. Not now. It's all too much.  What would they say at Church? Connie's gone commie, that's what they'd say. They'd all think I'd lost it. I'd be exiled. But my face would have a frame...maybe it's worth it, I mean, I can't let her win, those two have won enough, if you ask me.  Now they win the BANG race? NO ONE'S RACING YOU!  Oh would you look at that, they are showing her from the back, they are talking about her bangs and showing me the back of her head. COME ON C-N-N!  I gonna have to change over to Fox News, see what they have to say about her bangs, that'll cut her down to size...HA, CUT HER RIGHT DOWN...good heavens they are taking a poll.  FOX NEWS IS TAKING A BANG POLL!  Do I like the First Ladies new bangs? NO-I-DO-NOT!  AND IF I WASN'T ON THE PHONE WITH YOU, sweetie,  I WOULD CALL AND LET THEM KNOW!  

PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER FOX NEWS! 

I'm going back to CNN, the least I can hope for is reasonably unbiased coverage of her bangs.  Oh, now the president is talking... Of course, of course she did, I should have gone yesterday, I had the appointment, I should have gone to the appointment but the roads were covered with ice, I wasn't gonna kill myself to get OH MY GOSH I'M GONNA KILL MYSELF, SHE'S BACK! She is photo bombing the inauguration! Either that or the camera man is getting sick of this hippy propaganda the President is schlepping and cropping her into the frame. What do you need bangs for, honey, you got CNN framing your face for you!

That's it, I can't take it any more. Good thing I Tivo'd 'Days of Our Lives'...Holy crap Sami's got bangs."

Now, I wasn't recording or anything, and I would hate to paint my mother in any other light other then a beautiful, gracious, forgiving, bangless light, but I'm pretty sure that's how it went down...word for word...no matter what she says in the comments.  

*How long did it take me to find a picture of the President kissing his wife's bangs? Two seconds.  

My Hair Experience

My son at Stag. Wood panelling! Old leather chairs!

Back when I was young, I used to have awesome hair. I grew up with 7 brothers and sisters and so for economic reasons, my mom would always cut our hair. And she did a great job (I even had some awesome spikes down my part in 1987. Those were the days.) And she continued to cut my hair through high school and into college. Sure, I would occasionally go to a barber shop or something, but getting my hair cut was purely utilitarian.

Then when I was in college a friend suggested I go to her stylist, Heidi. I remember the haircut was $18 which seemed so extravagant to me, but I was young and dumb and liked to pay for things with credit cards, so I decided to go. Heidi was amazing. The salon was hip and cool. She brought me a Diet Coke to drink. We chatted about funny and interesting things. And when I left I remember feeling like I was walking on air. I looked in my cars rear view mirror at my new $18 haircut and thought Dang! Heidi is the goddess of scissors! I look good! I loved Heidi. And sent many of my friends to her. And we called her Heidi Let Her Light So Shine. As in "Do you have an appointment with Heidi Let Her Light So Shine today?" And while Heidi was an amazing stylist, I think what I was really in love with was the experience. I loved that she had a can of soda waiting for me. I loved that we talked about interesting things. I loved all the other fabulous people at the salon getting fabulous cuts.

Time went on and my hair got thinner and I continued to find stylists where I could have awesome experiences. Just before I got married I was going to Shep Studios in Provo, which I loved. Shep even met me early and cut my hair on my wedding day. He didn't charge me and cut it a little longer so I didn't look like some rube he had just gotten his hair cut that day. That's classy, folks.

But then I had a wife. And a budget. And big credit card bills that suddenly seemed important to pay off. And while the price that I was paying for a cut had gradually gotten higher and higher, my hair I had had gotten thinner and thinner. And it just didn't seem practical. So I started going to those cheap places. Like Amazing Sam's and Magic cuts! (Names have been changed.) And I would pay my $15 and get my hair buzzed and listen to the kids screaming in the background and the stylist would chew gum and stare off into space while she pushed the clippers around. I'd lost the experience. And it made me sad. In fact I blogged about my sad, stylist free life almost a year ago.

But I am happy to report, the experience is back. It's called Stag Barbershop and it only costs $10 for a haircut. You get your haircut by Jim, who is an old fashioned barber. He'll talk if you want to talk and is super friendly, but if you just want to sit and try to ignore the Fox News that is always blaring in the background, you can do that too. All the other clientele are at least 50. After your hair cut ends you get a straight razor neck shave with hot lather. And they finish it off with some aftershave lotion that smells like triumph and leather and your grandpa being rubbed into your neck where it burns oh so good.

It's one of those places that if it was owned by 27 year olds with moustaches and deep-vee neck t-shirts and scarves, they would charge $40 a hair cut but leave everything else the same (except maybe the Fox News.) It's not ironically retro. It's just straight up retro. And I don't get a free diet coke. And I have to sometimes listen to Hannity talk about how Obama is after our guns. But it's an experience. And I'll pay for that.

A Little Off the Top

With the poop-tacular state of our economy, we are always looking for innovative ways to save a few bucks around the Craig house. And at this point, we have moved far beyond the obvious choices of eliminating superfluous magazine subscriptions (take a hike, Reader’s Digest), indulgent video streamlining (hasta la vista, Netflix), and unnecessary food purchases (I never liked you anyway, vegetables).

One creative cost-cutting initiative: Home haircuts, a la my wife, Katie. Katie never went to haircutting school, but she doesn’t let that bother her. She can do our boys’ haircuts in a matter of moments, as they all look quite handsome with what the haircutting industry terms as “buzz cuts.” (I apologize if my use of haircutting jargon is confusing.)

My hair, however, is a completely different animal. A dangerous animal. A quickly graying, sometimes stubborn porcupine of an animal. And while I think Katie is quite good at cutting it, her desire for a mane of perfection guarantees it is by no means a quick procedure.

But I don’t mind the length of her process. Sitting still for that long allows time for innuendo and bum-grabbing, (conducted by yours truly), sharing of stories that we may have forgotten to tell each other that week, and reflection, generally brought on by the fact that I’m shirtless and staring into our bathroom mirror at my 41 year-old body, wondering what the crap has happened.

“I used to play water polo in high school,” I begin the conversation.
“Yep…(Katie snaps the No. 3 clip onto the razor)…you’ve told me.”

“I’m just saying…you know…there was a time when you could have washed laundry on these abs…instead of…whatever…dishes, I guess.”

“You look just fine,” she assures me.
“HOW ARE YOU EVEN ATTRACTED TO ME?” I question.

“You’re very attractive,” she responds, not looking at me while she snaps off the No. 3 from the razor. “Now, did you want me to shave your back while I’ve got this out?”

I pout silently for a while, thoughtfully considering that perhaps our bodies resurrect at their age 18 version. Then Katie pulls me out of my funk with a story.

“Did I tell you that Becca has been singing to herself when she’s sitting on the toilet?” We laugh and then it’s my turn. “Did I tell you about the check-out lady at Wal-Mart that told me if I was going to buy this much produce then I should probably shop somewhere else?” Then we discuss our strategy to own beach-front property and be independently wealthy some day, and it’s awesome.

So then we’re feeling all lovey-dovey and I’m already only half-dressed, so of course I turn on the charm and start in with the innuendo. We’re in close proximity, alone AND awake, so all three elements of “romance” are in the air. With scissors in her hand, me sitting on a bucket, and bits of hair all over both of us, I start singing the Righteous Brother’s Unchained Melody and, as you can imagine, the scene looks exactly like…well, whatever the opposite of Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore is.

Sometime later Katie takes a step back, squints at my head, and closely examines her work. She’s her toughest critic. When she’s finally satisfied, I jump in the shower and sing to her while she sweeps up the hair. For some reason, more than almost anything else we do together, this moment makes me feel like we are already 82 years-old and there are no stories we don’t know about each other and we just enjoy the fact that it’s us, in all our glorious and unsightly details.

I guess I don’t mind all the effects of our lackluster economy. 

I Like Girls with Short Hair.

Who knew this was going to end up some sort of fashion blog? (Josh and I did, that's who.)

But it's true. I like girls with short hair. I mean, come on don't we all think this:

is so much better than this:

Or that this:

Is nowhere near as beautiful as this:

Or better yet, this:

And Pluh-ezze, everyone was way more into this:

Then we ever EVER were into this:

And no one ever tapped this:

I pretty much thought everyone felt the same way I did. I mean, girls with short hair seem more stylish and sophisticated, smarter and thoughtful, and above all, they can't just roll out of bed and slap a scrunchy 'round a ponytail. Come on, you know it's true, you've been to Wal-Mart on Saturday morning. Even if the girl with short hair walks in with super ratty bed head it looks more put together than the pony tail. Sorry, don't get me started with pony tails. I mean, even the name, Pony - Tail! Why not Horse Butt. "What's that, darling? We have dinner plans I forgot about with your work friends? No problem I'll just whip my hair back into a Horse Butt and be right down!" Oh, man.

Well, to make sure everyone was as well thought out and correct as I am on this subject, I did a little research, and by research, I mean I called my brothers.

Here's the deal with my brothers: I have four of them... so there's five of us. The four of them are true-blue, football-playing when they were young, coaching cause they're old guys guys. Not that I am not, necessarily, but let's just say that none of them have a blog...and if they did they would not be blogging about hair lengths... and if they did it would be about the hair lengths of a Jimmer or somthing. So I called them one at a time (two of them were together so it made things 'nice and easy' for me) to ask them a few hair related questions. And despite being on three different phone calls they all came out looking awfully similar. This is how it shook out.

An Interview on Hair Length with The Livingston Brothers, March 2012

Me: Do you prefer woman to have long hair or short?

All Four, all without much hesitation: Long.

Me: Can you think of a celebrity whom you find attractive with short hair?

Mike, Chris, Casey (Spence could not think of any): Halle Berry.

If ever there was a case for the short hair bombshell it's Sister Berry.

When asked if they thought she would be better looking with long hair, after some hemming and hawing and some quiet moments of imagining none of them thought she would.

And they were right.

Mike, my oldest brother, whose wife's hair skims her shoulders, was definitely the most in touch with the current debate. He knew that "the girl playing Marilyn Monroe" had short hair (see above) which made him the most current of the brothers but then he followed her up with Janine Turner from Northern Exposure, which also made him the most dated:

Although she is a great example...from the early 90's

Way better short, right?

I mean something about the long hair on the celebrity who has become famous with her short hair makes her look...what? Common. Boring. (See all pictured above.)

The Interviews continues:

Chris, whose wife has the longest hair of all my sister in laws, well down her back, did point out that no Victoria Secret models have short hair. And after a quick Google search I found that he was completely correct. The best I could find was some Heidi Klum shots with shoulder length hair looking like some soccer mom who just locked her keys in the mini van.

(Que trumpet: Buwamp wamp wamp wahh. Que Spring: Boing!)

Casey, whose wife has a short shaggy bob, was the most open to the idea of short hair being attractive, but he also pointed out that long hair wasn't a free gateway to beauty. "There are some ugly girls with long hair. And there are pretty girls with short hair. It's not the only thing that matters." This was a unanimous thought amongst the brothers. They were all really concerned that any ugly girls reading this blog would stop cutting their hair and then start hitting on them using the "but you said you liked long hair" approach and leaving my brothers with no choice but to reciprocate. They wanted to give themselves an out.

Spence, whose wife's hair lays just past the chin, thoughtfully brought up that there is a severe double standard in his marriage when it comes to his hair vs her hair. "I have to keep my hair the way she likes it and she can do whatever she wants with her hair." When pressed on what it was he wanted to do to his hair that she wouldn't approve of he said, "I would just shave it all off. Man, that would be so convenient for me, but she would hate it." She would. And so would I.

And so it comes to you, whom I assume are mostly ladies out there, don't you think that this:

Is so much lovelier than this:

Even if you're super old, This:



Is far more attractive then this:




Even if you're French, This:



Is way more stylish than this:



But somehow not when you're French Canadian.
This:


Is not better than this:

Any guy can tell you that.

"Go Away" Part 2

In the week since I posted about my daughter's new-found fondness for telling me, my wife, and strangers to "Go Away," I have come to learn a lot. First, the phrase is everywhere. No doubt you saw that I have been spoon feeding her the phrase, biweekly, with Sword in the Stone, but Lindsay just reread it to her in The Paper Bag Princess, a healthy women's lib book if ever there was one. Remember when I cited Babe as my "never would say" example? Well, some Scottish rooster says it to some crowing duck. I've overheard other kids say it and grown-ups say it, which brought me to this terrifying conclusion: My daughter is a genius. It really is the only way to explain how she can pick up things so quickly, then retain them, then wield them for her own purposes.

When I was Daisy's age, which is not quite two, I was sitting in my stroller, living my life, having mashed up food placed in my mouth only to move through my digestive system, out of my body, to be cleaned and taken away by the person who mashed the food in the first place. A woman approached my stroller and reached in and scruffed her hands through my hair and said, "What a beautiful boy!" My parents beamed and the three of them regarded me. I squinted my eyes and looked to the woman and said, "Don't touch my hair." I was not quite two, but being who I am at 33, I'm sure that I meant it. What gave her the right? I'm sure it took no less than twenty minutes to get it looking just so, and Heaven knows where her hands had been--after all, she had just shoved them into a stranger's hair. I'm sure if she had seen a passing orangutan, she would had taken a moment to compliment the back of its tongue, but only after getting both of her filthy meaty fists down the back of the poor monkeys throat.

Don't touch my hair.

Of course, I was not quite two, and my very plain English was lost on her, but my parents heard me clearly. And when the woman asked what I had said, they shrugged and smiled and gave each other a look--which Lindsay and I have recently come to perfect--of "Our child is a genius."

Daisy can say about a thousand words. A quick google search tells me she should have 25-50 words in her cannon. She's WAY past that, not that you could understand them, but we can. Her word for "Popcorn" is very close to "Taco" and if she wants you to lay down next to her she says, "Leit?" and pats the spot at her side. She can say all her colors--even that Red and Yellow make "Orr-inge" and Blue and Yellow make "Geeen" and that Red and Blue make "Paw Pole." Not that she would ever tell you if you asked, mind you, but when you read the story of the white mice dancing in paint it's clear as day. Don't bother me with animal sounds; they are for, like, 18-month-olds and are beneath her. If you ask her what a cow says, she tries to avoid the embarrassing question by tasking elsewhere. She may give in, if you persist, but she'll tell you as if to educate you--you, a grown person and don't what a cow says? Humiliating.

The point is, she is not a genius...well, probably not. Does every parent think their children are adroit? We know Chris thinks Miles is too smart for "The Arts" and Ken and Josh both could fill this blog with their kids and their genius antics...and soon will. But for now it's me, with my magic daughter who can ask you "A Snake in the tree?" or can tell me where the dog has gone to the bathroom by pointing and saying, " 'Touts a-poo-poo, daddy a-mess."

Just so you can see what I'm talking about, here's a video. Enjoy.

Consider the Hair

This is a picture of me when I was about 18 or 19 years old.

I am not posting this picture to point out the fact that I evidently thought it was OK to wear a suit with a shirt with a button down collar (Honestly, who let me leave the house that way?) That is another blog. It is to show you my hair. Are you kidding me with that stuff? Thick, gorgeous, full of body. In a word: awesome.

I was apparently more smirky as a youth

This is more the look I am currently rocking (I'm the one in the back.)

Poor son. That hair is doomed to go.

What happened? Well, genetics happened. When I was about 19 or 20 my hair started to go and went pretty fast over the next few years. I miss it greatly. Only men who are not bald try to say that losing your hair is "no big deal." It is a big deal and it kinda sucks. I would trade up to three fingers (if I could pick which ones) for my hair back. Vain, yes. But I miss those locks.

What I miss most about my hair, other than its sheer beauty and brilliantine shine, is going to get a hair cut. When I was in college and was still clinging to my mahogany tresses, I would go to fancy salons when I would be given a cold Diet Coke, have meaningful chats with beautiful stylists and finish it all off with a minty-scented shampoo and a scalp massage. It was a treat and a delight. Relaxing and fun. I still remember my stylists fondly (I miss you Heidi and Shep!)

About 10 years ago, I realized that it just wasn't worth it anymore. I was paying a lot of money for not a lot of hairs to be cut. So I started going to those strip mall saloons - "Fantastic" Sam's, "Great"Clips, "Super" Cuts. (Ironic quotation marks mine.) For $11 someone will buzz my hair with clippers and clean up the mess. No meaningful chit-chat. No minty shampoo. No scalp massage. But it gets the job done. Going to get a hair cut is no longer an indulgence. It is just another item on my to do list.

Today at a unnamed haircutting place (between a Check City and a Pizza Hut - oh, the Humanity!) I was told the following things by my stylist:

"My doctor prescribed me Xanex to take when I was standing outside my 13 year-old's room with a pillow thinking 'He won't struggle that much!'"

and

"I used to tell my son 'I have a shovel and grandpa has a shotgun and it would just take a jury with one parent and I would never be convicted.'"

I wasn't sure if after the cut I should tip her or call child protective services/ the police. Heidi and Shep would never have talked about filicide!

So I am living in a different world now. A dark, hairless scalp massage free world. And I sometimes miss the old one. But if I have to be bald, at least I don't wear a button down collars with suits anymore. Now that would truly be something to be ashamed of.