So just the other day, something incredulous happened. I graduated from college. We were all surprised. I certainly was. But anyways, the finality of the entire experience was really kicking my psyche around for a while before I shook the funk off. Now, free, as a bird, I reflect. I look back on the last play I worked on, assistant directing Last Easter, and drawing lines between it and my first theatrical experience at USM, realize I should probably record this tale. My first Awakening moments as a undergraduate theatre major:
My first cast party.
Through happenstance circumstances the first few weeks of living in my lovely residence hall, I was stopped by a pretty girl asking me if I was auditioning for the second play of the year. My 18 year old Self was not me today, and easily dodged this opportunity with nervous fear and shyness. She persisted, but even then, the feminine wiles of pretty girls could not break me from my angsty fortress. What it took was an older, more masculine and authoritative and physically larger theatre major to pass by at the same time. She asked the same question to him, and he said ofcourse. She told him to bring me playfully and he was like "What? You're not? Are you a freshmen?" I said yes, and that was all he needed "Come on, Travis. We're going." And with that I found myself surrounded by eccentric loud artistic dramatic students in a too-well-lit dance room. The audition. Wesley Cianchette, I can never thank you enough for your peer pressure.
The play was a Greek classic. Lysistrata, by Aristophanes. It was a student director, hereby referred to as Allie. I did not read very well, and was outclassed by all the actors and actresses who had prepared so very well for this audition. This was one of the first few times I saw Dr. Malkav and the Reverend at work, as well as a young NFC. I felt defeated by the end of it, auditions will never be a strong point for me, but I recalled something Allie had said about wanting musicians as well and felt inclined to offer up my skills. So I approached her after it was over outside and told her I could play guitar and very limited hand drums and she seemed enthused and told me she'd be in touch.
It wasn't long before the cast list went up. A nice girl codenamed Junebug I had befriended a bit in a class almost knocked me over she was so excited. "We're cast together!! Aren't you excited??!!" she exclaimed. I replied with a very confused eyebrow furrow, unable to believe the truth of the situation. I was cast. In a mainstage show my freshmen year. On the mainstage. Freshmen. Baffled.
So no guitar playing for me, I was Male Slave. A bit role with two lines but some stage time and comedic moments. I won't go into the run of the show too much, that can be it's own thing someday in the future. Let's just stick with: I had to dance, pull the Female Slave offstage intimately, and the whole time wear a phallus made of coiled rope that hung eight inches down. All the other male characters had phalli of other materials that stood up straight and tall, the largest honored to NFC at a whopping 18 inches complete with light-up blue balls. (read a synopsis of Lysistrata here for a decent explanation why we were phallused.)
It was a fun show, to say the least. A wonderful footstep into USM's theater department.
Anyways, the party.
One of the cast members, a nontraditional student who lived off-campus (clutch), hosted the party. The directions were written on the chalkboard in the dressing room and everbody, cast, crew, and basically everyone in the department, was buzzing about the party. I was still a youngun' and shy was wasn't sure exactly what my plan of action was until the guitarist Allie ended up hiring came up to me, some music major, I'm calling him Thom for now, and asked me if I needed a lift.
"Sure, I need a ride."
"Do you need beer?"
"Are you 21?"
"Yes."
"Sure, I need beer."
A short car ride, some forced awkward smalltalk, a sixer of Guinness and a sixer of Magic Hat later, and we had arrived at the location of the party. But the party had beaten us over there. There were rooms filled with people, alcohol sitting out on nearly every counter surface, hors d'oeuvres, snacks and treats piled in penis shaped party bowls, a backroom for cannabis partakers, a huge cooler outside on the porch sprouting beer bottles of ice like flowers, and out back, a bonfire.
I first found NFC, my closest freshmen friend, and we remarked at how many people had showed and how cool it was to be at our first cast party and so on. Our boss in the Scene Shop, hereby referred to as Meat Loaf, walked up to us, drinking a beer. This was the first shocker. A faculty member. A beer. Off campus. Totally legal and legitimate. Wow. I'd heard he supplied the bonfire and asked what it was that was burning and he just said "The Laramie set" and burst out with a cackling laughter we couldn't help but joining. The Laramie Project was the first play of the season, about the murder of Matthew Shepard, a homosexual boy in Laramie, Wyoming. He had been abducted, beaten, humiliated and left for dead tied to a fence by two schoolmates of his. This fence was part of the set of the play, I'd helped build it in the shop, and was now burning brilliantly in the fire. I know. Yikes.
Allie's mother was the guest of honor, and by Allie's side the entire night. It's at this point I should mention Allie was approximately 22, a gorgeous brunette who made it very clear how sexual the play was and as a director kept a playful friendly relationship with the cast while also being in charge and maintaining order. So. We, the dudes of the cast, conspire to publicly embarrass her, and do our best to accrue as many folks as possible around the bonfire for a "toast." A good man who needs no codename named Anthony Texiera calls for all our attention, raises his drink and speaks beautiful praise to Allie and her directing and making this great time for us all, and then he declared in her honor the men of the party raise their glasses, and their asses. So we all drop trou'. And there's like a twenty dude Full Mooning of Allie. Mission successful, Allie's mother later remarked "why couldn't we see their fronts?"
So I've got some drinks in me now. No more quiet-hide-behing-emo-hair Travis, I'm moving and meeting and greeting and yucking it up. The Reverend, who I should mention played the crossdressed lead role of Lysistrata, finds me and asks me if I'd like some whiskey. Why ofcourse! He pours me some and I top it off with some Barq's Root Beer, which he dismays at. I ask him why he likes it raw, to which he replies "Because I like to know it's poison." Solid answer.
NFC and I surreptitiously slip into the back room where we here oh so much laughter and giggling. Boom. A haze everywhere, squinty eyes and sidesplitting chortling. Right off the bat, I'm standing next to a To Be Unnamed faculty member, who passes me the joint. I'm a young buck at this party, but with the 'juana, I'm no novice, so I toke, toke and pass it right along, feeling welcome and mature and accepted by all. I later brag about this exchange of contraband between off-duty professor and student for years onward.
In the kitchen, Rev has commandeered the music selection and throws on the Violent Femmes, to which we rock extensively to the delight of the more sober freshmen who think drunk men dancing like fools is entertaining for the first time. I sniff out some Grey Goose vodka, and recalling a classic strip from my favorite webcomic Achewood, I mix some with orange juice. The vanilla...it tastes just like an orange creamsicle icecream pop from the Shaner's truck. Delectable. So I'm getting a bit topsy turvy now.
Then another cast member, let's call him Cuervo for reasons to be explained in this same sentence, breaks out some tequila and announced body shots are to be done here and now in the kitchen. This is apparently his "Thing." He asks for volunteers...and no one says anything. The larger part of the kitchen crowd are freshmen much like myself and are frightened at this new concept and idea. I, having my Blood Courage Content level pushing right past 0.8, step up to the plate. And I declare I've never done a shot of tequila before. Cuervo's eyes light up like jack'o'lanterns. He scans the audience for the subject material of this little educational lesson...and finds her.
It's Allie. My director. And she boldly steps up to help show me how this is done. The kitchen is suddenly crowded to the maximum capacity of people ready to see this freshmen do a body shot off Allie. Allie's mother promptly steps out for a cigarette. I'm embarrassed, Allie's embarrassed, but we're both ready. Cuervo explains the premise here and the motions to go through. First, I lick her neck, then apply salt. She puts a slice of lime in her mouth. My goal here becomes clear: I must lick the salt, take the shot, and suck on the lime. Staggering.
So a little countdown is initiated by Cuervo, probably to pump me up for this deal. I lick, I shoot down the José, and go for the lime. And she puts up a fight, much to the delight of the audience. She eventually gives, and I've got the lime, so I remove it from my mouth, my eyes watering from the golden fire coursing down into my core, and before I can even make a sour face from the limejuice running down my chin, Allie grabs my jaw and starts making out with me.
The crowd goes wild. Welcome to college, Travis H. Curran. You're Superman.
A few more body shots are taken off some other ladies, one of the volunteers being Allie's ex-boyfriend. I'm totally oblivious to this until much later when he guest-teaches a stage combat lesson in my acting class and asks to demonstrate on me. Dicey business, but no real harm or foul done. I take two more body shots off some chicks but with no follow through like Allie's. No big deal.
I step out for some fresh holy shit I'm trashed air, and realize quickly, holy shit I'm trashed. Tequila, whiskey, and vodka sitting in jacuzzi of dark beer in my tummy. Helloooo. Did you bring your party pants?
I stumble out into the woods and lean over for a long time asking a snowbank a very serious question about my activities this evening. The snowbank tells me to man up and get back to the party. I agree with the snowbank. My stomach deals.
I'm welcomed into the kitchen by a great meeting of the minds, Malkav, Rev, and some other older faces. Despite he only being a half a year my elder in the department, the Reverend takes me by my shoulders as a prodigal son and declares his sermon before the meeting of the minds.
"Travis, you entering a great world, following in the footsteps of myself and Dr. Malkavian. You will find that comedy is more human than drama."
he then went on about my comic mask and having a face for it or something or other, I was simply nonplussed by the comparison between the great minds, and later to become my greatest friends and peers as time went on. His words stuck with me though, and it still weighs heavily whenever I write or create artistically.
The party went on. I got higher. Thom puked, and a lovely responsible sober lady drove in a designated fashion a couple of shuttles of folks back to campus, myself included. She wouldn't even let me in her car till I'd drank two glasses of water. And the next day, there was no hangover to be found. Whiskey, tequila, and vodka all played nice and got along within me and helped turn this frail meager boy into a tougher, rougher, more mature man.
The first college party. In the bag, under the belt, to be remembered with delight and cheer forever. And now, with college as a whole also done and done... probably one of the better times I'll look back on.
Good day.
Showing posts with label reverend. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reverend. Show all posts
5.14.2008
1.30.2008
The Festival. Day One.
Day One: Prelude.
There’s a large organization for colleges around America that have Theatre programs. They divide our fine nation into Regions and once a year the schools of these regions meet. It is called a large acronym, but we, the participants, know it only as “the Festival.” These schools stay in a large Four Points Sheraton hotel and attend workshops, compete in acting for scholarships, learn new technical skills, and see many plays by day. By night, we revel with a Bacchanal nature that would make our patron deity Dionysus weep with pleasure.
Our classes are dismissed for the week. This is the vacation no other academic major gets. And I am here now.
The bathrobe I just bought from the largest Salvation Army you’ve ever seen just down the road. The Raybans came from the iParty adjacent our hotel. The Johnnie Walker Red Label from the New Hampshire State Liquor Store. It’s 1:30 pm Eastern Standard Time and I’m getting my drink on before a play I’m about to see in an hour. It’s called Columbinus, and from the description involves student perspectives on the Columbine massacre and the two crazy sons of bitches that carried it out. These could be the best actors in the world, and this play will still be horrible. I’m not going to call it “too soon” just yet, but with such heavy content it is already doomed to being over-criticized, over-dramatized, and over-done. No one is walking out of that theatre a better person. This is just my surface thoughts though, once the scotch has kicked in and I possibly further inebriate myself, I’ll get back to you on how Columbinus affected me.
This is my third year in a row coming to the Festival. Each year marked with high adventure, extreme debauchery, intimacy, and memorable times. The Festival is a mile-point in my college career, and once I’m out of this institution, my fondest memories will be of the Four Points Sheraton in Leominster, Massachusetts. You pronounce it LEMON-STER, but since we are Maine folk proper we disregard any sense of their Masshole vernacular and have resorted to calling it Leo-Men-Stah. This is deeply rooted from the Missouri Compromise.
This year is different though. They did not house our students in the Four Points. No. We are across the street. In the Super 8 Motel. So far one room has had it’s toilet overflow nonstop. The room across the hall had large insects in the beds. We called them bed-bugs, but who the hell really knows what a bed-bug is. These both happened on the second floor. I am on the fourth. I feel safe so far, but the sketch of this shady motel may soon reach our door.
Last night I cracked open the Johnnie Walker and had a few tumblers of Scotch with ice. This unfortunately wasn’t working as quick as I’d like. A fine blended Scotch Whiskey is not a party drink. It’s a "lounge in your new bathroom that makes you look like a prizefighter and discuss the finer points of plot development in playwriting with the Reverend" drink. Rayban sunglasses optional, but recommended. I had a few glasses but mixed it up with some cheap beer until the night started taking off. Hanging around this new place with my best friends, remembering the crazy times at the Festival years before.
At the right point of the night, in celebration of our first night down, I broke out some Wild Turkey Bourbon (another special thanks to the NH State Liquor Store) and with a select few took a couple swigs. If you’ve never had 101 proof Wild Turkey before, just a few swigs is all you need and I was all set for the duration of the night. People came and went from my room and I came and went to others’ rooms. Everything started getting very smooth and cool, getting to know some of the freshmen younger folks better who I had not fully aquainted myself with, a man hereby referred to as Scarborough particularly. We talked of ProTools, Audacity and other sound engineering programs we were familiar with. He has a real affinity for the stuff and hopefully has a bright future in either sound design or audio engineering.
Ended up in M&M’s room. Reminded him of how he once took advantage of how easily persuaded I am when intoxicated and made me make out with this chick who was not someone anyone wants to be seen making out with in order to sway the vote in our Student Organization in our favor. It didn’t sway the vote, he just wanted to laugh at me, but it was all in good fun and I made him feel a bit guilty. The nostalgia was hilarious. The Reverend arrived and joined us, but we soon after realized the time and severity of our drunk, so we arrived on the decision for Bedtime. Whitesnake and Bones were already passed out, and we followed suit.
And now, I head to Columbinus.
There’s a large organization for colleges around America that have Theatre programs. They divide our fine nation into Regions and once a year the schools of these regions meet. It is called a large acronym, but we, the participants, know it only as “the Festival.” These schools stay in a large Four Points Sheraton hotel and attend workshops, compete in acting for scholarships, learn new technical skills, and see many plays by day. By night, we revel with a Bacchanal nature that would make our patron deity Dionysus weep with pleasure.
Our classes are dismissed for the week. This is the vacation no other academic major gets. And I am here now.
The bathrobe I just bought from the largest Salvation Army you’ve ever seen just down the road. The Raybans came from the iParty adjacent our hotel. The Johnnie Walker Red Label from the New Hampshire State Liquor Store. It’s 1:30 pm Eastern Standard Time and I’m getting my drink on before a play I’m about to see in an hour. It’s called Columbinus, and from the description involves student perspectives on the Columbine massacre and the two crazy sons of bitches that carried it out. These could be the best actors in the world, and this play will still be horrible. I’m not going to call it “too soon” just yet, but with such heavy content it is already doomed to being over-criticized, over-dramatized, and over-done. No one is walking out of that theatre a better person. This is just my surface thoughts though, once the scotch has kicked in and I possibly further inebriate myself, I’ll get back to you on how Columbinus affected me.
This is my third year in a row coming to the Festival. Each year marked with high adventure, extreme debauchery, intimacy, and memorable times. The Festival is a mile-point in my college career, and once I’m out of this institution, my fondest memories will be of the Four Points Sheraton in Leominster, Massachusetts. You pronounce it LEMON-STER, but since we are Maine folk proper we disregard any sense of their Masshole vernacular and have resorted to calling it Leo-Men-Stah. This is deeply rooted from the Missouri Compromise.
This year is different though. They did not house our students in the Four Points. No. We are across the street. In the Super 8 Motel. So far one room has had it’s toilet overflow nonstop. The room across the hall had large insects in the beds. We called them bed-bugs, but who the hell really knows what a bed-bug is. These both happened on the second floor. I am on the fourth. I feel safe so far, but the sketch of this shady motel may soon reach our door.
Last night I cracked open the Johnnie Walker and had a few tumblers of Scotch with ice. This unfortunately wasn’t working as quick as I’d like. A fine blended Scotch Whiskey is not a party drink. It’s a "lounge in your new bathroom that makes you look like a prizefighter and discuss the finer points of plot development in playwriting with the Reverend" drink. Rayban sunglasses optional, but recommended. I had a few glasses but mixed it up with some cheap beer until the night started taking off. Hanging around this new place with my best friends, remembering the crazy times at the Festival years before.
At the right point of the night, in celebration of our first night down, I broke out some Wild Turkey Bourbon (another special thanks to the NH State Liquor Store) and with a select few took a couple swigs. If you’ve never had 101 proof Wild Turkey before, just a few swigs is all you need and I was all set for the duration of the night. People came and went from my room and I came and went to others’ rooms. Everything started getting very smooth and cool, getting to know some of the freshmen younger folks better who I had not fully aquainted myself with, a man hereby referred to as Scarborough particularly. We talked of ProTools, Audacity and other sound engineering programs we were familiar with. He has a real affinity for the stuff and hopefully has a bright future in either sound design or audio engineering.
Ended up in M&M’s room. Reminded him of how he once took advantage of how easily persuaded I am when intoxicated and made me make out with this chick who was not someone anyone wants to be seen making out with in order to sway the vote in our Student Organization in our favor. It didn’t sway the vote, he just wanted to laugh at me, but it was all in good fun and I made him feel a bit guilty. The nostalgia was hilarious. The Reverend arrived and joined us, but we soon after realized the time and severity of our drunk, so we arrived on the decision for Bedtime. Whitesnake and Bones were already passed out, and we followed suit.
And now, I head to Columbinus.
1.16.2008
The Men's Room
My very good friend, hereby referred to as the Reverend, or Rev for short, due to his ability to spout profound truths and actual status as a minister in the Universal Life Church, recommended a business to me a while back.
It’s called The Men’s Room. It’s down in the Old Port at the bottom of Free St. and advertises itself as a Men’s Lounge. But it is not just a lounge.
It is a salon/stylist/hair taking care of place, that also happens to be a classy lounge for gentlemen. All of their services total to $40 dollars, which don’t get me wrong here, is waaayyy too much for a haircut. But you do not receive just a haircut. Rev talked this place up so much I just had to try it, and on Tuesdays, if you go with a friend, it’s half price. Solid.
The first day of the 2008 semester. Classes. I’ll tell you about my winter break later. I have to catch the 7:15 bus into Gorham, sit through my Oral Interpretation, Drama Literature and Theatre History, and Scenic Design courses, all of which consist of receiving the syllabus, talking about it and then peacing straight out of there. It was haircut time. Actually that’s wrong. It was soup time. We ducked into the Portland Public Market House for some quick eats and I got this delish french onion soup with honey whole wheat bread. Fantastic.
Immediately upon entering the front door of the Men’s Room you find yourself in an antechamber for stomping your feet, where you read a large chalkboard sign, the kind normally seen out on the sidewalk in front of a business. The only thing it says is: “We Change Men’s Lives.” I did not know whether or not to believe the sign on this claim, but they certainly sounded confident.
Inside was not what I expected. When I heard “lounge” I expected dark lighting, large comfy chairs around tables with pianos on top of them, with a seductive lady singing into a microphone lying on top of the piano in a deep green dress that whispered out to you in a breathy voice class. Not here though. A glass table with high chairs, window out to the street, the counter and beyond, a row of barbershop chairs in front of mirrors. Between the counter and the chairs sat a large deep red pool table with low lamp over it. On the opposite side a large soft leather couch and recliners faced one of those plasma super widescreen high definition television sets I hear the kids yappin’ on about these days. Football was on. Rev and I took off our winter gear and approached the counter. Rev, being the card holding member of the Men’s Room and the one who set the appointment, spoke first to the pretty lady. Said his name, she asked if I was Travis, which I affirmed.
She asked if this was my first time, so I stifled a smirk and replied yes softly. This chick was a straight up fox. Unbelievable hot. Magazine hot. Chick’s this well put together don’t talk to me. They tend have this special sonar for spotting hopeless young men lower on the socioeconomic scale than them, calculate their Creep factor, and then decisively have nothing to do with them.
But nay, she made direct eye contact with me. Eyes that held you rapt. She batted her eyelashes. I might have gasped, I’m not sure, but I definitely had to concentrate on not just feinting and doing a faceplant onto a faceplant onto the hard fabric mat for wiping your feet off on. That would not have been okay. This is the Men’s Room. I had to be Men-ly. Not Little Girly Man-ly. I stood with a straight back and open chest and spoke with my voice’s lower register. We both had button up collared shirts on. It was time to be respectable.
She took my hand like teaching a little puppy to shake and introduced herself as Lins and informed me she’d be cutting my hair today. Then without a pause asked Rev and I if we’d like something to drink. She listed off the options: water, coffee, beer, wine, tea? Rev politely asked for some wine and I mimicked him. No identification was asked for or questioned. The glass of wine didn’t show up on the bill. The Men’s Room makes you comfortable. Their whole upper class pampering shtick with the services and pool and wine and pretty ladies pretending to be interested in you and doing a damn fine job of it, was really winning me over and melting my cold skeptic heart.*
Rev read the newspaper while I tasted my soup. The soup was too hot so I just polished off the glass of wine, not wanting to make Lins wait long. So I wandered down the length of the room towards her idly, sipping, watching TV, looking over the posh environment provided for me. Lins asked if I was ready from a distance which startled me a bit, so I knocked back the rest of the glass and took a seat. There I came face to face with myself in this large mirror with a border like a church window from either a Tudor or Gothic era. There I witnessed the shame, embodied by the unkempt waves of my hair running down the back of my neck and over the side of my forehead, masking part of my face. I had never seen it this bad. Ever.
“When’s the last time you had a haircut?” she asked.
“I...I honestly don’t remember.” I admitted to myself.
I instructed her to take it short. Real short, up along the back. A fade up the back (possibly the only hair term I know). And on top, longer than the rest, but still pretty short. Short, but not too short, y’know? She said she knew. I thought she knew. But she didn’t just start clipping away, no. First. A shoulder and scalp massage. She told me to close my eyes and gently caressed her hands on my back, shoulder blades, up my neck and around my head. This. Was. Awesome. I would not ever think the ear was even a nominee for Most Erogenous Zone award, but this lady did things to my ears that made my knees shake.
Then we went to the shampoo area, where she had me lean back and rest. I sampled three different scented oils for the hot washcloth face treatment deal...which was also so frickin’ cool. Why haven’t I been draping a hot moist rag that smells of oranges over my face every goddamned day of my life? Why haven’t we as a culture adopted this as a mandatory practice, perhaps in our wake up or going to bed routines? Ludicrous. I didn’t want it to stop. Lins washed my hair twice and took the heaven off my face.
This entire time she kept up the penchant mild chitchat of a barber to the barb-ee, except it was no longer a grumpy old lady feigning interest in my academic life, but this vixen asking me what I’d like to do with my degree and what useful things I’ve learned as a theatre major. She asked if the Rev and I were brothers which we both chuckled about, once again being reminded.
“I was thinking about this short,” Lins said, holding up a strand of hair from the top of my head.
I just came clean and dispensed with the pretending I actually cared about my image and even devoted time of my day to structuring it and preparing myself for the public’s eye. That was a falsehood.
“Cut it however you feel would look good on me, like, whatever you think looks good, and I will definitely agree with you and like it.” I stammered.
Lins smiled a bit at this but didn’t say anything. The realization that my statement was actually an unspoken assumption made between any stylist and their clientele dawned me two seconds after saying it. Lins was going to do that anyway, I didn’t have to tell her. Things started looking a bit overcast not long after. She was cutting my hair short. Very short. Too short. But I could not stop her hand and tell this beautiful young woman she had done wrong. I surrendered my trust to her and her personal opinion of how to make me a dashing handsome man. She broke out this straight razor and went to work, “texturing” my hair. A new problem slowly appeared and built with exponential pressure...I had gas.
After she had finished up my hair, it was time for the neck shave. We moved over to the shaving chair, she put a warm ointment on the back of my neck while I watched a commercial for some show about this Steve Irwin replacement fellow just messing with hippopotami and man, those things get fierce. Lins brushed this shaving cream onto my neck and straight razored all loose-goosie neck hair strands out of my life. Then told me in between haircuts I could come in for a free neck shave at any time. Righteous. Rev finished before me and shot some pool idly.
After that, she rinses my hair out, blow dried it, then applied this clay product to shape it and make it look like I’m one of those pretty boy dudes with the gelled hair all spiky and messed up on purpose. This look did not take to me well but she liked it so I rocked with it until I got outside and Rev lent me a hat to flatten down the Dude-Poof.
We paid the pretty ladies our reduced price deal and exeunted, checking out our new doo’s. We headed down to Portland Pie Company for a couple of beers.
And I’ve got to say, the Men’s Room does it’s job right. A fine metro haircut, with luxury and loungery with plenty of ego-stroking. I still feel like a new man. It’s the kind of pampering you should treat yourself too. A little pat on your own back. See, you tell yourself, I’m not some scuffed grungy hippie. I can make this legit. I am Legitimate. Solidarity.
*my heart is neither cold nor skeptic, my brain is skeptic, my heart is gentle and strong and full of love and small individually wrapped candies. Like a piňata.
It’s called The Men’s Room. It’s down in the Old Port at the bottom of Free St. and advertises itself as a Men’s Lounge. But it is not just a lounge.
It is a salon/stylist/hair taking care of place, that also happens to be a classy lounge for gentlemen. All of their services total to $40 dollars, which don’t get me wrong here, is waaayyy too much for a haircut. But you do not receive just a haircut. Rev talked this place up so much I just had to try it, and on Tuesdays, if you go with a friend, it’s half price. Solid.
The first day of the 2008 semester. Classes. I’ll tell you about my winter break later. I have to catch the 7:15 bus into Gorham, sit through my Oral Interpretation, Drama Literature and Theatre History, and Scenic Design courses, all of which consist of receiving the syllabus, talking about it and then peacing straight out of there. It was haircut time. Actually that’s wrong. It was soup time. We ducked into the Portland Public Market House for some quick eats and I got this delish french onion soup with honey whole wheat bread. Fantastic.
Immediately upon entering the front door of the Men’s Room you find yourself in an antechamber for stomping your feet, where you read a large chalkboard sign, the kind normally seen out on the sidewalk in front of a business. The only thing it says is: “We Change Men’s Lives.” I did not know whether or not to believe the sign on this claim, but they certainly sounded confident.
Inside was not what I expected. When I heard “lounge” I expected dark lighting, large comfy chairs around tables with pianos on top of them, with a seductive lady singing into a microphone lying on top of the piano in a deep green dress that whispered out to you in a breathy voice class. Not here though. A glass table with high chairs, window out to the street, the counter and beyond, a row of barbershop chairs in front of mirrors. Between the counter and the chairs sat a large deep red pool table with low lamp over it. On the opposite side a large soft leather couch and recliners faced one of those plasma super widescreen high definition television sets I hear the kids yappin’ on about these days. Football was on. Rev and I took off our winter gear and approached the counter. Rev, being the card holding member of the Men’s Room and the one who set the appointment, spoke first to the pretty lady. Said his name, she asked if I was Travis, which I affirmed.
She asked if this was my first time, so I stifled a smirk and replied yes softly. This chick was a straight up fox. Unbelievable hot. Magazine hot. Chick’s this well put together don’t talk to me. They tend have this special sonar for spotting hopeless young men lower on the socioeconomic scale than them, calculate their Creep factor, and then decisively have nothing to do with them.
But nay, she made direct eye contact with me. Eyes that held you rapt. She batted her eyelashes. I might have gasped, I’m not sure, but I definitely had to concentrate on not just feinting and doing a faceplant onto a faceplant onto the hard fabric mat for wiping your feet off on. That would not have been okay. This is the Men’s Room. I had to be Men-ly. Not Little Girly Man-ly. I stood with a straight back and open chest and spoke with my voice’s lower register. We both had button up collared shirts on. It was time to be respectable.
She took my hand like teaching a little puppy to shake and introduced herself as Lins and informed me she’d be cutting my hair today. Then without a pause asked Rev and I if we’d like something to drink. She listed off the options: water, coffee, beer, wine, tea? Rev politely asked for some wine and I mimicked him. No identification was asked for or questioned. The glass of wine didn’t show up on the bill. The Men’s Room makes you comfortable. Their whole upper class pampering shtick with the services and pool and wine and pretty ladies pretending to be interested in you and doing a damn fine job of it, was really winning me over and melting my cold skeptic heart.*
Rev read the newspaper while I tasted my soup. The soup was too hot so I just polished off the glass of wine, not wanting to make Lins wait long. So I wandered down the length of the room towards her idly, sipping, watching TV, looking over the posh environment provided for me. Lins asked if I was ready from a distance which startled me a bit, so I knocked back the rest of the glass and took a seat. There I came face to face with myself in this large mirror with a border like a church window from either a Tudor or Gothic era. There I witnessed the shame, embodied by the unkempt waves of my hair running down the back of my neck and over the side of my forehead, masking part of my face. I had never seen it this bad. Ever.
“When’s the last time you had a haircut?” she asked.
“I...I honestly don’t remember.” I admitted to myself.
I instructed her to take it short. Real short, up along the back. A fade up the back (possibly the only hair term I know). And on top, longer than the rest, but still pretty short. Short, but not too short, y’know? She said she knew. I thought she knew. But she didn’t just start clipping away, no. First. A shoulder and scalp massage. She told me to close my eyes and gently caressed her hands on my back, shoulder blades, up my neck and around my head. This. Was. Awesome. I would not ever think the ear was even a nominee for Most Erogenous Zone award, but this lady did things to my ears that made my knees shake.
Then we went to the shampoo area, where she had me lean back and rest. I sampled three different scented oils for the hot washcloth face treatment deal...which was also so frickin’ cool. Why haven’t I been draping a hot moist rag that smells of oranges over my face every goddamned day of my life? Why haven’t we as a culture adopted this as a mandatory practice, perhaps in our wake up or going to bed routines? Ludicrous. I didn’t want it to stop. Lins washed my hair twice and took the heaven off my face.
This entire time she kept up the penchant mild chitchat of a barber to the barb-ee, except it was no longer a grumpy old lady feigning interest in my academic life, but this vixen asking me what I’d like to do with my degree and what useful things I’ve learned as a theatre major. She asked if the Rev and I were brothers which we both chuckled about, once again being reminded.
“I was thinking about this short,” Lins said, holding up a strand of hair from the top of my head.
I just came clean and dispensed with the pretending I actually cared about my image and even devoted time of my day to structuring it and preparing myself for the public’s eye. That was a falsehood.
“Cut it however you feel would look good on me, like, whatever you think looks good, and I will definitely agree with you and like it.” I stammered.
Lins smiled a bit at this but didn’t say anything. The realization that my statement was actually an unspoken assumption made between any stylist and their clientele dawned me two seconds after saying it. Lins was going to do that anyway, I didn’t have to tell her. Things started looking a bit overcast not long after. She was cutting my hair short. Very short. Too short. But I could not stop her hand and tell this beautiful young woman she had done wrong. I surrendered my trust to her and her personal opinion of how to make me a dashing handsome man. She broke out this straight razor and went to work, “texturing” my hair. A new problem slowly appeared and built with exponential pressure...I had gas.
I’m lactose intolerant. It’s haunted me all my life. It’s unfortunate, because I love dairy products but my body just can’t handle dairy business. When I ingest any sort of bovine byproduct, it gets stinky. And lately, they’ve been real bad. Evacuate the vicinity bad. So I avoid dairy for the most part, except some exceptions, like cheese. I love cheese. I eat cheese. And you can’t stop me. No one can.Bless my cognitive control over my bodily functions, for I did not fart, and create the most awkward social situation the Men’s Room has ever seen. You’re sitting there trapped in the barber’s chair, and she’s there, doing her job to attend to your needs. She can’t go, you can’t...it would have been a catastrophe. But I dodged that flatulent bullet.
After she had finished up my hair, it was time for the neck shave. We moved over to the shaving chair, she put a warm ointment on the back of my neck while I watched a commercial for some show about this Steve Irwin replacement fellow just messing with hippopotami and man, those things get fierce. Lins brushed this shaving cream onto my neck and straight razored all loose-goosie neck hair strands out of my life. Then told me in between haircuts I could come in for a free neck shave at any time. Righteous. Rev finished before me and shot some pool idly.
After that, she rinses my hair out, blow dried it, then applied this clay product to shape it and make it look like I’m one of those pretty boy dudes with the gelled hair all spiky and messed up on purpose. This look did not take to me well but she liked it so I rocked with it until I got outside and Rev lent me a hat to flatten down the Dude-Poof.
We paid the pretty ladies our reduced price deal and exeunted, checking out our new doo’s. We headed down to Portland Pie Company for a couple of beers.
And I’ve got to say, the Men’s Room does it’s job right. A fine metro haircut, with luxury and loungery with plenty of ego-stroking. I still feel like a new man. It’s the kind of pampering you should treat yourself too. A little pat on your own back. See, you tell yourself, I’m not some scuffed grungy hippie. I can make this legit. I am Legitimate. Solidarity.
*my heart is neither cold nor skeptic, my brain is skeptic, my heart is gentle and strong and full of love and small individually wrapped candies. Like a piňata.
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