locks of love

In August 2003, I'd had it. My hair was getting caught in everything--doors and car windows, seat belts, under shoulder straps, in my mouth--and it made rolling over in bed a suffocating experience. I like my hair well enough, but I'll be the first to confess that I'm lazy when it comes to grooming. Showering and brushing my teeth I can manage on a daily basis, but beyond that's a chore. Suffice it to say, sometimes I wait a LONG time between hair cuts.

It was time. It had to go.

Locks of Love is a non-profit organization that provides hairpieces for financially disadvantaged children suffering from long-term medical hair loss. I'd heard about them a while back, so I did a little research to see where I could have my locks lopped. It turns out that many salons across the country offer discounted or free haircuts to Locks of Love donors (they have a listing on their Web site), so I made an appointment.

The Edge in Santa Monica is a stark, minimalist place, with concrete floors and welded steel salon stations, complete with hip young stylists and electronica blaring from the DJ booth in back. A brooding fellow sporting a wife-beater and ripped physique did the deed: 22 inches in a thick braid for bald kids who need a shot in their self-esteem. Awesome.

Brooding boy is a very physical stylist. When he's cutting hair, it's almost like a balletic photo session, with much posing and posturing. With the big mirror in front of us, it's like a little performance for the two of us. Spray, pose, snip, pout, comb, flex, pommade, big finish. A fellow stylist (who earlier held my braid to the back of his head and proceeded to do an absurdly silly impression of a Kung Fu fighter) comes by to admire the handiwork, and says to me, "You came in with locks of love... now, all you got is LOVE!" Sho' nuff.

b e f o r e

a f t e r