To dye for

Boy, is my face red. Or at least a very deep brown.

After a few recent photos taken of me in which I more closely resembled the Talking Snowman (as voiced by Burl Ives) in the Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer Christmas special--all portly good cheer, all incredibly, indelibly white--I have taken up the habit again of dying my facial hair. I've done it before, but it's always been before some big event--a job interview, a date, a photo op for a spread in Hello! or OK! to show off my fabulous celebrity lifestyle. I've never exactly been consistent with it, though, usually doing it once, then not touching it again (or, as the case may be, re-touching it) for weeks or even months.

Of course, facial hairs are short and tough. As I'm no ZZ Top-wannabe, I am prone to trim, pluck, cut, and otherwise maim mine regularly. Thus, after a dye job, if all goes well, I have about a day or two of hmmm-that's-kinda-dark, followed by a week-and-a-half of hey-that's-more-like-it, before gradually fading into someone who looks like they should whip out a gee-tar and begin the conversation with "Well, you know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen . . . ."

However, you could replace "Vixen" with "Geezer" and perfectly describe me at that stage.

Normally, if things don't go well, it's a case of shoulda-left-it-in-longer. If I'm lazy (who me?) or haven't trimmed the facial hair in a while, then I'll only hit the top hairs on my mustache and goatee, leaving the underside still gray and white. Thus, it will look like I've barely done anything--"something's different about you . . . did you get new glasses?"--but by week's end, all will have returned to its formerly gray, Eastern Bloc state. Day wear, evening wear, swim wear. Blah.

To my surprise, though, I have discovered that there is a third state of being, heretofore unexeperienced by me--that is, leaving in the dye for way too long and combing in the color thoroughly from root to tip. After walking around town all day looking as though a mad clown attacked me with a Sharpie during my sleep, I'm beginning to long for my holly-jolly, Burl Ives-ian self.

The dye I use, Just for Men ('cause goodness knows, none of us he-man types could be caught stocking up on bottles of Lady Clairol or Garnier "Shilled by a Former Star of Sex and the City" Nutrisse) gives you just 5 minutes to achieve magic in the mirror, discovering your new "Mystery Date" self. (Will I be a dream? Or a dud? Or an utter horrorshow?) Just for Men previously made three shades in my range--medium brown, ash brown, and light brown. Ash brown was probably the closest match for me. Despite having medium brown eyebrows and, in a previous life, medium brown hair, my facial hair was a mix of brown, blond, gold, and red. And ash brown, whatever shade that is exactly, seemed to be the shade du moi.

However, apparently, I wasn't the only one confused about what color ash brown actually represented, as I can no longer find that shade on the market, only the light and medium browns. You know, we guys--even us gay ones--lack the gene that distinguishes robin's-egg blue from blue-green, teal, or aquamarine. Keep it simple, Corporate America.

Light brown works OK. I use it, but often the effect is fairly negligible, plus I suspect it's a shade better suited to a man with different, fairer coloring, hair or otherwise. But what do I know? From my understanding, when doing the dye-jobbing, the rule is to go with a shade darker or lighter than your own coloring. But which coloring? Skin? Hair? Original hair--or gray hair? Hair hair--or mustache hair? Eyebrow hair? Eye color? Hunh? I'm confused.

Medium brown definitely colors and covers things up, much like hot asphalt covers the faded, cracked surface of a Pennsylvania highway. But the match is a little too good, so that after a dye job, I end up for a day or so looking a little like Chuck Norris--he of the hair, eyebrows, and beard in an exact match of monochrome-ocrity. Everytime I see him on a commercial for the Total Gym or in a rerun of Walker, Texas Ranger, I tsk-tsk and think, didn't some stylist tell him never to do that? Couldn't someone buy him a rug that contrasts a bit more with the dye? And does he dye his body hair, too? 'Cause from my HDTV vantage, the carpet is matching the drapes a little too well.

But now I'm maybe slightly more sensitive to Chuck's dilemma. Especially after trying to be hyper-efficient and multi-task the other morning (read: just hyper), and while doing so, leaving in the dye for a little longer than 5 minutes. Possibly 6, maybe even a little closer to 6 and 30. I kinda lost count. Now I suddenly am faced (quite literally) with a color that best resembles Hershey's dark chocolate and was probably only 15 seconds away from blue-black. Or, if you prefer, azure.

Not pretty. But, gratefully, not robin's-egg blue either.

So I've gone from the face of some '60s folk singer to that of one looking as though it is covered with a mass of very angry, very brown, flesh-nesting caterpillars--in just five minutes or more! Better living through modern hair products and cosmetics.

I considered calling in sick to work the day I did this--or donning a burka and telling everyone my name is Fatima, and I'm a temp, then ending all further discussion with a loud uuluuluuluuluuluuluuluuluu, followed by the query, "Now where is the photocopying device, please?" But I endured, faced the mirror and the music, and counted myself lucky that I know only a couple of people in this city well enough that they might realize my aesthetic, cosmetic faux pas.

I'm sure Chuck Norris would understand--but would he find it in his chest fur-matted, L'Oreal-colored heart to forgive me? Or would he just laugh, roundhouse kick me in the cojones, and look into the camera to say, "The chief export of Chuck Norris is PAIN"?

I'd be content with the understanding, Mr. Norris. 'Cause, really, I'm worth it.