Cut and Play

Avoiding the hi-top fade.

For women, getting a haircut is serious businazz. A bad cut can set a fella back for maybe a week or two, at worst triggering nasty sideburn envy after a shaving mishap, or forcing him to wear one of those douchebag beanie caps to cover up when a near-blind barber accidentally buzzes everything down with a one instead of a two. But for ladies, one trip to an overeager hair "artiste" can result in the way-too-short bangs from hell, or a Little Richard-style mullet that flaunts it's top heavy puff and tail for the better part of a month.

This is especially of concern to females with high maintenance hair, a category the frizzy/wavy/curly Jones family women have covered from every angle. My monster mop requires a hairdresser with an intimate understanding of Wavy Jewvolume, Straight Jewangles, and the curse-of-all-curses Jewfrizz-humidity factor. Once you find a scissor-wielder who is familiar with these tricky follicular properties, you don't let him/her go, which is why I have been returning to my West Village godsend of a stylist for the past three years. This woman - who I'll call Valerie - is nothing less than a genius, who in addition to carving the sexiest, most versatile looks into this mop of mine, also knows when to talk a woman out of chopping all her hair off (after a breakup), which she has done for me twice, much to my future relief.

In fact, only recently (three weeks ago?) did Valerie allow me to cut significant length off my locks, giving me a fun, gradual bob that prompted my mother to introduce me at a Superbowl party with the line, "This is my daughter, Posh Spice."


Beckham's bathroom is bigger.

When Miss Raquel (little sis), who has super curly hair, mentioned to me that she was looking for a new hairdresser, there was no doubt in my mind she needed to see Valerie, though I'd never seen the woman attack a head of curly hair before. And Miss Raquel's hair is no joke. Back when she was in middle school (when ladies are just beginning to learn how to work with what God has given them), it took a third of a bottle of green LA Looks gel to tame those crazy corkscrews. There was a closet in the Jones family basement that held no less than fifteen bottles of ecto-green, Level 3 gel (Maximum Hold, which trumps Extra Hold, FYI) in reserve. A seven day Mexico vacation would prompt the packing of THREE BOTTLES - God forbid there wasn't enough gunk to combat the extra showers, effects of chlorine, and Jewmidity. I imagine Miss Raquel carried around a pound of product in her hair each day. Not fun. The evolution of hair products, good advice from stylists and YEARS of experimentation have led Miss Raquel to a lower maintenance, green goop-free hair care routine, but the girl still has some serious (though gorgeous) hair to contend with.

Which is why I almost shit myself when I walked into the hairdresser to meet Miss R for brunch after her appointment with Valerie to find this



had been transformed into this



Miss Raquel is one of the few Long Island Jewish girls who didn't find it necessary to default to the long arduous straightening process and iron the fuck out of her beautiful curls in the high school days. Instead she embraced her curly genes (which for my father - before balding - produced the most magnificent 60's fro you've ever seen) and was undoubtedly more beautiful and less aggravated for it. I can only remember one time when, out of sheer curiosity, I tried to straighten the lady's hair and it was a nightmare -- over an hour of brushing and heat and sizzling split ends, resulting in all pouf, no gloss. 70's Diana Ross style results. But apparently it's standard procedure at Valerie's salon to finish cuts on curly manes when they're blown out straight, so Miss Raquel got the professional straightening treatment, and ended up looking way more polished than she did after my botched attempt, and just a touch more like...well...



Like moi! (Granted I don't wear glasses, but I'll meet her in the middle here.)

In the eighties we would have raked in the dough for Doublemint gum commercials. Now we'll have to settle for a career in twin porn.

My fascination with little sis' straight hair lasted for the seven or eight hours we spent together during a long, hungover Saturday. In between our catch up sessions and futile attempts to do work (which consisted of more childhood reminiscing and advice about men, punctuated by occasional exclamations of, "Okay, time to do work!"), I took about thirty pictures of Miss Raquel in various poses related to the unfamiliar silkiness of her hair. Since I has gone to bed at 5am on Saturday morning and woke up to join Rachel at the hairdresser four hours later, it took me a little while to realize the significance of this particular photo:



I took this picture of Miss R as she was explaining that she never gets to run her fingers through her (curly, gelled) hair, but what I didn't think about at the time is that this also means Rachel has gone through 22 years of her life without OTHER PEOPLE running their fingers through her locks. As a major proponent of (receiving) hairplay, 'twas a sad, sad moment when I realized ma chere soeur Raquel has been missing out on one of life's fundamental pleasures for all these years.

I'm a hairplay SLUT - I'll take it from who/wherever I can get it: mom, grandma, lady friends, and boyfriends (or nice boys who wanna make me loooooove them). It's kind of disturbing how much I enjoy the feeling of someone's fingers dragging through my mane from scalp to ends. My eyes instantly close. Sometimes I let out sex moans. Occasionally I even lift my leg and do a canine shake. OHMIGOD it's so good. If you're a lousy lay but you rub a mean scalp I'll keep you around, but not vice versa. You have to give good head.

The thing is, there are strict rules regarding when hairplay can and cannot be administered, especially for curly and wavy haired ladies (or ladies who do both straight and curly). Men, even the ones who are kind of touchy about their own hairstyles, never seem to understand that running your fingers through waves and curls will turn a lady's head into a ball of frizzy mess. There are ways to play with wavy hair that minimize style disturbance (scalp massage only), and special cases (right before washing) where curly/wavy hairplay is sanctioned, but I know it is difficult for fellas (who understandably don't really give a shit) to identify when their ladies are going to give them hell for trying to show a little affection. A boyfriend once suggested I draw up a chart outlining these guidelines, so I decided to finally make it happen. Hopefully it will serve as a worthwhile teaching tool for devoted hairplaying men around the world:


**Rules may be amended based on hair washing schedule, approaching gym time, and the promise of hot sweaty sex. Consult the owner of the hair in question for with inquiries about specific scenarios.

In the end it's pretty simple. If you move to play with my hair and I don't want you to, you'll know it. Otherwise, I will shake my leg uncontrollably and sigh. And probably put out.

And to Miss Raquel I say, HONEY. Take advantage of the straightness while you can. Make the boyf take a sick day and have him feed you grapes while he runs his fingers through all twelve inches of it for 18 hours, nonstop. Holy shit after 22 years locked in gel you deserve it.

And then go back to curly, cause I love you that way. Besides, the Doublemint days are over and neither of us are desperate enough to do porn -- though it is nice to know we've got that niche option.