Dude, Not the Hair

We've all made a party foul, right? Like fiddling with the hosts iPod or putting out a cigarette in an urn full of dead grandmother, all manners of public fucking up are par for the course of an active social life. And they can all be laughed about the next morning. But what if you break a law that you didn't even know existed? A law so vital that disrespecting it can make an entire yard full of people stare at you like you're leprous?

About a month ago, I broke such a law. It shames me to say it now, but I just have to confess and hope that I find redemption.

Forgive me, Father. I messed up a gay man's hair.

It started as the most innocent of interactions. I was in the front yard of a house party talking to a friend of mine. And when I get a little tipsy, I can get very affectionate with the people who I truly appreciate. I might kiss them on the cheek, offer big hugs or even lift them off the ground. This time, though, I thought the best expression of "Hey, nice to speak with you" was to run my hands through his coiffure.

I had barely displaced a strand when three men to my left, whose presences I had barely noticed before, gasped like I had struck them. They chastised me with cries of "Oooooh...." and "How could you do that." The actual victim of the hair-ruffle seemed pretty nonplussed about the whole thing, but he might have just been holding his tongue so I didn't feel worse.

This is probably a good time to mention again that I'm somewhat lacking in the hair department. Part of this is by choice, as I've been buzzing my hair every two weeks since February. But the rest is genetics. Truth be told, I'm growing my hair back out right now and praying that there will actually be something left to to grow... especially now that I've let a certain prescription lapse. So maybe I've just gotten in the habit of ruffling people's hair because I can't ruffle my own. I'm a Leo, remember? Hair is really important to us.

But jeez, why did so many of the homos around me react like playing with someone's blond curlies is tantamount to reaching in their pants? Maybe we are just as vain as everyone says we are. Or maybe I should just keep my damn hands to myself.

But here's the real problem: Now that I've crossed this boundary once I'm unstoppable. Get two drinks in me and I'm like some kind of beauty parlor madman, leering at the adorned scalps of anyone who gets in my way. Saturday, at Nellies, I had that one last beer (the one I shouldn't have had) and tried to work my magic on the hair of someone I had just met.

His reflexes were faster than mine, though, and he knocked my hand away before it could make contact. Undetterred, I spent the rest of the night focused on the goal of getting this guys hair messed up. Maybe its that I can't stand to be around overly groomed people or that I just have a natural talent for being irritating, but this guy's hair was making me react like a cat being walked through a forest of yarn. He turned his back for a second and bam, I was ruffling his hair. Not paying attention in the bathroom line? Hair ruffle! It was way more satisfying than it should've been.

But maybe I'm just longing for the thing I might not ever have again. I'll let you all know in a couple months if my Jew-fro ends up back in full force, or if I'll have to join the Hairclub for compulsive above-the-neck molesters.