The Beauty of 12

Usually I prefer working on a floor slightly closer to the ground, for an obvious number of reasons being NYC. But in this partiuclar building I prefer the 12th floor, mostly because most everyone else gets off the elevator on the 8th or 9th, and lately it's provided me a precious 3 or 4 floors of vanity time to groom myself in the large elevator mirror, with, I must say, the lighting of which is nothing less than fantastic.

It has been particularly important recently because I received my first expensive haircut in my effort to cultivate my New York hairdresser (it's NY, you have no choice but to go all out - I'm just waiting to see who long I can last until the credit card companies start calling...).

So far this guy, John Gabriel, is the guy. The cut has been wonderful and he amazed me with random techniques that probably did nothing but looked pretty fuckin' cool. The only problem was my determination to have him trim my eyebrows - in my attempt to look more like Liberto Rabal from Almodovar's Live Flesh I've chosen no longer to pluck my Ukranian unibrow but instead only trim in to look more like the hottie on the right.

Surprisingly, however, senior Gabriel was much more Brooklyn masculine than I expected and by the time the cut was over I was too shy to ask such a manly hairdresser to trim a poor gay's eyebrows - so I had Laura do it instead (thanks for that, they look great...).