Just for Men

Just for Men



One night at the dinner table, my daughter and her boyfriend started teasing me about my hair turning grey. The next evening while watching a television program, I took notice when an advertisement boasted its products ability to turn back the tide of time in a way uniquely, "Just for Men." Mulling over the possibility of dying my hair, another advertisement confirmed enhancement of my sex appeal was inevitable, if my hair colour reflected a youthful spirit, all of which grabbed me by the collar and pushed me over the edge. Taking a detour on the way home from work the next night, found me exiting the drug store with a suave bounce in my step. Deep within my coat pocket, the men's hair colour kit was hidden away, lest anyone observe my vanity.

Sleep eluded me that night, as I fitfully entertained the possibility of a new and improved me. Optimistic and up bright and early the next morning, I made my way to the bathroom to trifle with the fountain of youth. Glossing over the instructions that required a magnifying glass to read, I puzzled how hard could it really be? With this adventurous spirit, I donned plastic gloves and mixed the wonder potion. Standing there alone buck naked in the bathroom, I meticulously applied the secrets of this enticing potion. Completing the task of dowsing the hair on my head, I couldn't help but notice my eyebrows could use a good spanking too. Without hesitation, a dark brown arch, something like a fat rainbow, now accented the hair above my eyes. Falling back into my vulnerability toward wrong thinking, somewhere along this gleeful path I rationalized, if a little was good, a lot was sure to be much better. Running with abandon, I took direct aim at the greying mass of hair in the middle of my chest. Looking like I had big brown cow flop all over my upper body, I figured it was time to hop in the shower for the unveiling of my youthful redemption.

Stepping out of the shower, this redemption was short lived! Nothing could begin to describe the horror I felt when confronted by the man staring at me in the mirror. He was someone I had never seen before; with a bowl shaped, dark brown ring encompassing his entire head. If you didn't know better, you'd swear he was a dead ringer for Moe, one of the Three Stooges. To make matters worse, stain lines flowed like tendrils down my cheeks all the way to my belly button and beyond. My chest looked like a sharpshooter target with a giant ring of dark brown hair as a bull's eye. By now, blood was coursing through my veins at the speed of light, as I jumped back in the shower and re-scrubbed. In utter disbelief, once again, as I emerged from the shower, that awful stooge named Moe was still there. With heightened senses popping like lightning bolt traces, I realized my eyebrows made me look like Spock from the Star Ship Enterprise. Now I really panicked!

With a towel wrapped around my waste, I rocketed out of the bathroom for the kitchen cabinet and the bleach held captive in its possession. Rounding the corner with nothing but deliberate purpose, I heard my daughter gasp, "Oh my gosh dad, what have you done to yourself?" With one hand on the bleach bottle and the other holding one of those green scrubby pads, my towel sagged as I bolted back to the bathroom. I can only imagine the gang banger look from my backside. There confronted by both, Moe and Spock, my heartbeat raced hard enough to shake the entire house. I frantically applied bleach in an attempt to scrub out any trace of these two unwanted guests. After my third rendezvous with a scalding shower I emerged to find no deal, these characters had booked themselves for the month in this hotel!

The barbershop didn't open until 10:00 am. I hid in my office with lights off, feigning an excuse of a migraine. Finally able to sneak away from work, bursting through the front door to the barber shop was almost like a surreal time travel experience. As if time stopped in an old saloon, every eye in the joint focused on the odd-looking alien who just walked in the door. My eyes darted quickly down the row of eight barber chairs, seven of which, were clearly occupied. Finally focusing on the eighth chair, there at her station stood a woman with cropped purple hair and earrings in just about every penetrable part of her body. Her big bright red lips pursed, as she chewed a big wad of pink double bubble gum. Smiling, she patted the leather seat saying, "Come sit here honey, I can help ya." I was in no emotional condition to be picky, so with a deep breath, I plopped my fate obediently where she pointed. Her opening words set the tone for the rest of this ethereal experience. Chomping away with intermittent pops of double bubble gum, she circled the chair slowly and paused with these words, "Wow dude, I don't see too many guys your age into the punk rocker thing." With that, I began blubbering about my hair dye experience, as she patted my knee and assured me, she could fix the problem.

Her first pass with the shears took off almost three quarters of my hair. When she was done, we both agreed it was a good start, but more help was required. The next run at the problem left me with a quarter of an inch on my head. Staring for what seemed like an endless amount of time in the mirror, vague images of Moe and Spock were still visible. Finally, the inevitable came when she declared we would need to resort to a buzz cut and a special treatment for my scalp. Good heavens; when it was all over, I sat there looking at the appearance of a tanned face man with a bright white fluorescent scalp, not to mention ears that doubled as radar dishes pasted to the side of my head.

Eager for adventure, with a flirtatious smirk, she appealed to me to let her do something about the alleged bull's eye on my chest. I politely thanked her for her interest saying, I would have to take a pass. Sensing my pain, her parting shot came with encouragement for me not to worry, "Four weeks darling, and you'll be a brand new man!