Who hasn’t had a celebrity crush? I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours. Jonathan Antin, of Bravo Television’s reality series, Blow Out, was mine. For a long while, he was my definition of the total package. Even though I have a perfectly decent husband, and four lovely daughters, still, I had eyes for Jonathan.
Here was a guy who understood style, could run a business, deal with the public, create an empire, and drive off into the sunset while making a deal on his hands free cell phone. A true Hollywood wild child, complete with requisite tattoos and throw away chic, Jonathan exuded an ease I hadn’t seen enough of in the suburbs of Richmond. Thankfully, I could tape the episodes, and freeze frame the close ups, which I then expected my poor husband to watch, all the while directing him on how I thought his side burns should grow a little longer, like Jonathan’s of course. I would pause mid scene and discuss whether or not he starched his shirts. Predictably, I loved his car, and suggested to Steve that he get one just like it someday. I went so far as to call his hairstylist, on the hour of his appointment, and proceeded to direct her over the phone on how to create that kind of strong profile. Rugged, but understated. Confident, but not flashy. Masculine and edgy. How refreshing to see. Jonathan was a man’s man, only with true style. Not the sort of guy who was indifferent about it. Nor did he possess that kind of affected metrosexual, urban, trendy chic either. Jonathan, when it came to style, was simply aware, but not preoccupied.
Imagine my surprise when my Mother’s Day gift that spring was an appointment for a haircut with …. Jonathan. My Jonathan? How could it be? Was this for real? Strangely it was, and my genius husband had concocted the plan all on his own. Brilliant! The time and date were set, only I swore to my family that I couldn’t possibly go unless they went with me. Just me and Jonathan? No way! I needed my posse. So when the date approached, off we went to Hollywood.
When we arrived in his uber hip downtown salon, there he was. Doing guess what? Looking in the mirror! But not in a bad, affected way, he was simply checking out his hair. He was a stylist after all. Wasn’t that his job? Before my haircut, it was two hours with his colorist, who painstakingly added highlights, with a brush so fine it was almost invisible. Finally, the big moment arrived. He approached my chair, extended his hand, and said simply, ‘Hi, I’m Jonathan.’
Four hours later, the haircut was finished. A four hour haircut, Jonathan style. He’d snip, we’d talk. He’d comb, we’d laugh. In true Jonathan fashion, we talked about the real stuff. Family, home, childhood, kids, and spouses. His large heart was blasting through his fine dark shadow of some indiscreetly non labeled t shirt. His spray bottle hung from the front pocket of his low slung effortlessly fitting jeans. He was funny and tough, passionate and wild, but fiercely dedicated to his craft, and the human element involved in the ordinary, the real stuff, the day to day living. I realized why I was so attracted to him in the first place. He reminded me of someone I already knew. The one who set it all up to begin with. My guy, Steve.
Our girls had a wonderful experience. Even Steve got a great haircut. But it was so more than that. When we left after much hugs and photos, we walked out into the California sunshine. We stood on the sidewalk and talked. And guess who we saw, driving off after spending the day with us? Our man Jonathan, into the sunset, in his cool car, honking and waving at us.
