From across the bustling gym floor, I spot a swarthy guy with a shaved head, and hereturns the glance. For the next few hours—in between reps and sets—we continue to periodically lock eyes. What do we have in common? We both shave our heads and we both feature similar facial hair: a trendy, albeit devilish looking, demi-beard. Near the end of my workout, I notice a large and dangerous looking tribal tattoo inked into the back of his neck, and I think,“Ummm, nevermind, he’s probably a bad-boy, bad news. Trouble. Too bad…Pass. ”Then I think, “Well I shave my head, and I’m also adorned with
“ink” (the result of a drunken college vacation in Miami). And just because it’s concealed on a part of my body I only reveal on “festive” occasions, am I really any different?” Because of the aforementioned “bad-boy” judgment, a whole new crop of thoughts began to cut their way into my cranium. Had all the ink forced me to read him wrong? Had I broken the old rule, “don’t judge a book by its cover”?
When I moved to Los Angeles 14 years ago, I left behind a burgeoning design career, a rent-stabilized three-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village (which nearly killed me), various aspects of my preppy East Coast wardrobe and the last vestiges of my hair, which sadly had often been referred to as my “best feature.”In the years before the move, having an enviable mane, coupled with the entitled attitude that accompanies youth, I was often responsible for leading my friends through bitchy gossip sessions surrounding the lives of those less fortunate and less hairy, whom I referred to as “troubled tops.”These “TT” men were most often older and refused to “part”with their hair, opting for the classic comb-over (a la Donald Trump) or the unsightly, unnatural looking toupee. Suffice it to say that when you judge someone, and then…well..it happens to you, eulogies tend to be brief or quietly fade away altogether, just like hair loss. Having made fun of such a predicament, my only option was to face my fading follicles and cut to the chase. Joining the ranks of Kojak and Mr. Clean, I wore my shiny situation like a badge of courage. Then something odd began to happen. Whenever I’d return to New York— due to my lack of hair—it became customary for my friends to pass me on the street because they saw someone different.
“While I was at the gay porn awards in San Francisco last weekend, I met this guy who used to date you, ”my friend Robert said over lunch.
“Really?” I replied, intrigued that I had an ex who had joined the ranks of the adult entertainment industry.
“What was his name?”
“I can’t remember … but I have his card somewhere.”
“Well, what did he look like?” I asked, probing further.
“Like you. Like all your boyfriends. Shaved head. A little shady.”
Like all my boyfriends? A little shady? What? The statement bothered me on several levels: that I was both a narcissist and a terrible boyfriend, cutting through copious men each year, choosing only to date those with a shady demeanor and a shaved dome.
And the only ex-boyfriend I knew thatlived in San Francisco was Troy, a corn-fed Iowa farmboy turned hipster. He didn’t seem shady to me, so I probed further.
“Was his name Troy?” I asked.
“Yep! That was him!”
The next day, as I raked the razor across my head in preparation for a night out with friends, I couldn’t stop thinking about two things: Do we judge a book by its cover, and do the covers we create for ourselves bind us to a different identity?
Later that night, at a popular watering hole, I was introduced to a few familiar faces from the gym, guys I’d seen for years from under a barbell or while trotting on the treadmill. And, with all the questions still nagging me, I decided to ask the pair for their perception of me.
“Do you guys think I’m, well…ummm, a-a-a bad boy?” I probed.
“Funny you should ask that!” came streaming out of the mouth of the taller one, a well-built salt and pepper hunk.
“Actually, we have a nickname for you at the gym! We call you Slim-Shady!” I almost spit my martini across the front of his trendy graphic T-shirt.
“Slim Shady?” I repeated back for clarification.“
"Really?”
He looked over at his friend,who smiled and nodded back in agreement.
“Why?” I asked, trying to sound as meek as possible.
“Do you honestly think I’m shady?”
Again, they both nodded back in unison.
After discovering my new moniker, it felt odd whenever I fluffed a throw pillow or became concerned over an unsightly nose hair. And although it was nice to know that my eating habits had paid off (the slim part), it was bizarre to think of myself as “shady.” But as odd as it felt, there was also something I liked about it.
But what? I wondered. And then it hit me! I realized—if I’m going to be totally honest— that I would much rather be viewed a “bad boy” than a bitch. I’d much rather have people scared of me than torture and taunt me. And there it was, the root of the issue, my protective coating,the binding to my book cover: my tormented boyhood. As a boy with an attraction to most of the same things girls were fond of (including boys), I was seen as weak, and occasionally tormented for it. And now, as a gay adult, it appears that I have done an excellent job of suppressing the things people will perceive as weak. But in doing so, like those who look like me (apparently ex-boyfriends included), in getting all inked up with tatts or rugged with the razor, had I gone too far? For fear of harassment, had I cut the nice-boy image out of my life—along with my hair?
Some experts say that during attraction, the parts of a man’s brain associated with processing visual information are more active than a woman’s. Experts also say that you gravitate towards people like you and that perceived equality contributes to a stable union. But in the boy-on-boy world, has it turned into a Catch-22, shaving away the perception of sweet, and inking a deceptive deal with tatts and a shiner? Have we gay men opted for shaved and shady over shaggy and sweet?
For me, my (book) cover was originally created from a loss of hair, forcing me to make something out of…well…nothing. And my life (since boyhood) has existed not in some dark and shady place where I plot the demise of some helpless faggot, but exactly whereit has always been: shopping, cooking, designing and figuring outhow to sleep with other faggots. And, as of late, wondering if, behind some façade, the faggot I want to sleep with is actually a nice, sweet faggot like me. So, the next time you look at the criminal looking guy, look beyond the tatts and the nipple ring, the shaved head or the shady goatee, because even if you still have your hair, you just might see your own reflection, especially if you use a sponge and a little Mr. Clean.
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