My hairdresser is so cool, he even has a song written about him. And no, it’s not Morrisey’s “Hairdresser on Fire.”
The eponymous tune is called “Chris Cayton.”
The catchy song was written by Chris’ childhood friend, John, who is lead singer of the band Goldfinger, and contains lyrics about Chris’ colorful past as a skateboarding, punk rocker growing up in South Lake Tahoe.
If you check out the YouTube video in which Chris joins the band on stage at the House of Blues in Las Vegas, it’s easy to see why Chris is song-worthy.
First off, he is easy on the eyes.
That is if you can recognize him. See, Chris is the Sybil of hairstyles. Except instead of multiple personalities, he has multiple hairstyles disorder. Whenever I show up for an appointment at , I never know what to expect.
Sometimes, after he O.D.’s on the bleach, Chris looks exactly like Billy Idol; six weeks later, he’s got a scruffy, brown David Beckman-vibe going. My favorite, and the closest to Chris’ natural look, is his tousled blond surfer coif a la Owen Wilson. Come to think of it, Chris looks a lot like Owen, only with a better nose.
Miraculously Chris pulls off every style. But his good looks aren’t the reason I’ve been loyal to him ever since he gave me “The Rachel” haircut back in the '90s.
I keep going back because Chris puts up with me.
Over the years my ’dos have changed, but one thing has remained consistent: my quest for the perfect highlights. My “instruction” usually starts after Chris settles me in the chair and goes in the back to mix my color.
“Remember, Chris,” I yell after him, “blond, but not too blond. I want to look like I’ve been kissed by the sun. And no peroxide! Ugh, who wants fried-Wet Seal-Paris Hilton hair?”
He brushes on the color; my micromanaging continues. “Closer to my scalp, please,” I admonish. “Otherwise the highlights will grow back in two weeks. And please, not too chunky. I don’t want to look like Debbie Harry of Blondie. Focus, Chris. Are you with me?”
Once I asked Chris if I was his most high-maintenance client ever. “Top three,” he deadpanned.
I don’t feel too bad. Chris gets his money’s worth. He cuts our whole family’s hair. Even my 12-year-old son, Saxon’s. In this case, I use the word “cut” loosely. Saxon and Chris share the same thick butterscotchy-colored hair, and the two surfers are in cahoots. No matter how short I ask Chris to go, by the time he’s finished, there is a maybe a thimble’s worth of Saxon’s hair on the floor.
For that reason, if you see a child out on the street, small tumbleweeds of hair resting on the top of his head, fear not. My son is not homeless. He just gets his hair cut by Chris Cayton.
