A few weeks ago I got the following e-mail.
I have been asked to contact you by [Very, Very Famous Person]. He has just read your new book “Swish” and loved it. [Very, Very Famous Person] would very much like to chat with you, would it be possible to forward me a telephone number on which he can contact you?
Personal Hairdresser to [Very, Very Famous Person]
Personal Hairdresser? I thought. If [Very, Very Famous Person] wanted to get in touch with me, why on earth would he do it through his Personal Hairdresser? Obviously this is from either a practical joker or lunatic who wants my phone number the better to stalk me with. No way am I sending my phone number.
Then I thought about it some more, and I realized that because of my narcissism and need for attention I have already made myself pretty stalkable, so I figured, what the hell, and e-mailed [Very, Very Famous Person]’s Personal Hairdresser my cell phone number. Late that night, when unable to sleep, I checked my e-mail to find another message from [Very, Very Famous Person]’s Personal Hairdresser saying that [Very, Very Famous Person] would be calling me the next day. I didn’t know quite how to feel about this.
The next morning it turned out that I had to spend some time doing some unspeakable things in my basement, where I don’t get cell reception. When I came back upstairs my phone beeped and I saw that I had received a voice-mail. Oh, GREAT, I thought, casting about for something sharp with which to disembowel myself. [Very, Very Famous Person] called and I missed my chance to talk to him because I was doing unspeakable things in my basement and now I have ruined my life. I checked my voice mail and heard the following message.
“Hi, Faustus, it’s [Very, Very Famous Person] calling. I’m back in [Very, Very Famous Person’s Country of Residence] now and . . . I hope you’re not back at cheerleading practice, my darling. But if you are, I hope you’re being flung in the air as I speak. Listen, I’ll keep trying you. I’m on the move and I’ll keep trying you all day. All right? Lots of love.”
Oh, thank God, I thought, letting the bread knife fall to the floor. There’s a chance I haven’t ruined my life. I just won’t leave the part of the house where I get good cell reception until he calls again, if in fact he does call again.
And sure enough, an hour or two later he called again.
While I was on the land line doing a live radio interview.
I was in the middle of answering a question about knitting or sex or something like that when my cell phone rang; I knew immediately that it was [Very, Very Famous Person] because the number that showed up in caller ID had too many digits to be in the United States phone system. I went instantly dumb—I think I the last word I’d said was “syphilis” (which makes me think I must been answering a question about knitting)—and then started making choking noises. I had absolutely no fucking idea what to do. I couldn’t very well ask the radio interviewer to hang on for a few minutes while I talked to [Very, Very Famous Person]. But if I didn’t pick up the phone the second time he called then obvious [Very, Very Famous Person] wasn’t going to call back. After several moments during which every part of my body was paralyzed (except for the vocal apparatus, which was still making choking noises), I jabbed my thumb wildly at the “OK” key. I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do; perhaps I could make the radio interview a three-way.
But I’d jabbed my thumb too late. [Very, Very Famous Person] had already been sent to voice mail. This time he didn’t leave a message. I couldn’t kill myself because then I wouldn’t have been able to finish the interview, which would have been rude; luckily, the misadventure provided me enough fodder to give a very entertaining radio interview during which I made lots of funny jokes about why [Very, Very Famous Person] might be calling me and successfully concealed my desire to be eaten immediately by a South American giant anaconda.
But when the interview was over there were no anacondas around so I went, despairing, to the grocery store, bought an Entenmann’s chocolate fudge cake, came back home, started eating, and didn’t stop till I had finished the whole thing. Then the phone rang again.
Clearly, I thought, in a former life I saved the lives of several babies.
I still haven’t quite gotten over picking up my phone, saying hello, and hearing, “Hi, it’s [First Name of Very, Very Famous Person].”
“You’re a difficult man to get ahold of,” [Very, Very Famous Person] said. “What have you been doing?”
“URGH!” I said.
Our conversation lasted for five minutes and eighteen seconds. I am the world’s most moronic moron for not recording it, because he said a number of very nice things about my book. He also said that he wanted to get together next time he was in New York and that I should keep in touch with his personal hairdresser ([Very, Very Famous Person] doesn’t have a computer) and figure something out.
AND the personal hairdresser apparently looks like Daniel Craig.
That must have been a fuckload of babies.
Do we at least get to guess who said [Very, Very Famous Person] is? My vote is for Rupert Everett.
Rupert Everett?? Never! Faustus is a man of taste and discrimination an’ shit like that. Also Everett is no way famous enough to have a PH.
My money is on Elton. That’s John by the way not Mr.
Faustus – a clue would be nice!
Oh, please. Do you think I would have gone to all the trouble of typing “[Very, Very Famous Person]” so many times if I had any intention of giving it up?
[Very, Very Famous Person]’s identity, that is?
Having seen [Very, Very Famous Person]’s hair up close myself, all I can say is his hairdresser had better damn well look like Daniel Craig or he’d’ve been out of a job years ago.
And no, I’m not telling either.
1) I wish my hairdresser looked like Daniel Craig AND that he took care of my hair below the belt as well as the hair above. As it is, SHE looks like Patsy from AbFab.
2) I wish I had enough money or fame to be the time of person to use the phrase “I’m on the move” like I’m freaking Aslan from the Chronicles of Narnia!
3) We will probably have to wait till [Very, Very Famous Person] and Faustus appear in the gay press together next time VVFP is in New York!
If you’ve ever wanted to get involved in a celebrity tabloid scandal, now’s your chance! (I for one would pounce on the opportunity because I someday wanna be linked to trashy Hollywood sleazery.)
As my hair is cut by a very nice Bosnian woman, I have to say I’m glad my hairdresser does not look like Daniel Craig. That would be wrong.
but I thought you told the radio audience lots of jokes about why VVFP was calling you? did this not reveal VVFP’s identity? you told them and not us???????
I’m off to cry into my sleeve.
Since the Very, Very Famous Person speaks English and lives overseas, I’m going to assume that the V,VFP lives in the United Kingdom.
It is SO cool that Queen Elizabeth II has read your book! Clearly you used the pronoun “he” to disguise that fact.
Either that or it’s Sir Ian McKellen.
I hate blind items.
Even more so when I’m extremely jealous.
Adam875: I am choosing to believe that your experience with [Very, Very Famous Person]’s hair occurred during the tenure of his previous personal hairdresser and that the new one not only looks like Daniel Craig but is also a brilliant stylist.
J.P.: Perhaps you can convince [Very, Very Famous Person]’s personal hairdresser to do some moonlighting?
logan: It would be much easier if I were still attending orgies every other night.
jeffrey: What if Hollywood has been deceiving us this whole time and Daniel Craig is actually a very nice Bosnian woman?
birdfarm: It’s because I love them more than I love you.
Jeff: Of course I can neither confirm nor deny either of your guesses.
Craig: What if it were Dick Cheney? Would you be extremely jealous then?
Since apparently [Very, Very Famous Person] does not have an executive assistant — leastways, not in the US — then I think you need to forward my contact information and resume post-haste. I need 4 weeks of vacation and I can start at…oh, hmm, let’s say $95,000 for the first six months and after that we can negotiate. I will also need a cat-sitting stipend for all the international travel I will no doubt be required to do. Oh, and…ummm…I think free haircuts with Daniel Craig.
Let’s see…very, very famous, busy, successful, owns real estate, and has a close relationship with his hairdresser. I’m just assuming it’s Donald Trump. I know, he’s straight. But he wouldn’t be the first person you’ve converted,now, would he?
Andy: Obviously [Very, Very Famous Person] has combined the positions of executive assistant and personal hairdresser. How are you with scissors?
Aidan: What do you take me for? Wait, don’t answer that.
I’m more of a clipper kind of guy. Bzzzzzzz.
Alan Cumming, it has to be Alan Cumming
i’m slowly, slowly recovering from the devastating effects of the cruelty of comment #11…as i sit here in stunned anguish, it occurs to me to wonder…
is “fuckload” truly the correct collective noun for “babies”?
I have become the hapless recipient of VVFP’s identity, in what has amounted to a Faustian bargain with Faustus. Taking an overview with my new information, however, I have to say that the whole conversation now seems ironic on one or two levels. And I can’t explain further without giving clues, which I have sworn not to do.
The collective noun for babies is “gurgle.” Gaggle of geese, gurgle of babies.
Good talking to you the other day, Faustus!
I KNEW Famous Author Rob Byrnes had a personal hairdresser. He kept trying to convince everyone in New Orleans that he looked that fabulous without any effort at all.