LOS ANGELES, Apr. 30 – Since, among my friends, I am known as the American hairless, I stand baldly qualified to do an objective job on Jay Sebring.

In the quick brush of 3 1/2 years, Sebring has become to men’s hairdos what Richard Neutra is to home architecture — the form giver. His shop on Fairfax Ave. just north of Melrose Ave. explodes with the noise of celebrities waiting their turns and trying vainly to talk above the jazz that Sebring pipes around the premises through multiple high fidelity speakers.

From noon past the dinner hour, men stream to Sebring’s for a haircut (“hair design” is more pretentious and more accurate), shampoo, facial, manicure, pedicure, a cosmetological treatment — or combinations thereof. By the numbers and the noise, it is a sort of P.J.’s with scissors.

The Ankh — Egyptian symbol of eternal light — is everywhere, nailed to the walls, decorating the doors. The 10 chairs — more boardroom style than barbershop — are continuously occupied.

In addition to a stylist for every seat, there are two handmaidens to do manicures or pedicures, a lovely receptionist, a pretty female facialist, an expugilist who gives skintoning treatments, a shoe shine man — and occasionally Gypsey Boots.

Boots is a wholly bearded, uncut character who sells organic delicacies to Sebring patrons.

“I was discovered here,” he claims, “for the Steve Allen show. I don’t want to let my television success go to my head, so I still come in to serve people.”

Taking the opposite approach — by going to the heads of successes — Sebring has built an empire that grosses nearly $200,000 per year. His staff cutters, all trained by the master, charge $6 and up for a haircut.

Sebring himself gets $25 for a first sitting (which involves planning as well as pruning), $15 for all cuts (inluding shampoo) thereafter. He has 150 personal clients, will accept no more unless the challenge or the personage is too tempting to turn down. Marlon Brands, Frank Sinatra, Henry Fonda, Andy Williams, George Chakiris, Lance Reventlow, Milton Berle, Sammy Davis Jr. and businessmen of comparable parts are among the faithful.

The underlying secret, a simple one, is that Sebring cuts hair “the way it grows out of the pores.” Working like sculptors, Sebring and crew try to find the natural follicle character of each customer. They spend up to an hour on every cut, snipping, shaping and taking one-eyed squints at the artistry in process.

To his basic design principle, Sebring adds several Sub-clauses: a shampoo must precede each haircut because dampness makes the art go finer; hair should be cut as short as possible but still look long; between visits, customers should wash their hair as often as once a day, which is good, not bad, for the scalp; oils and grease are for machines, verboten for the human head.

Only a few years ago, T. Jay Sebring — Alabama born, Navy veteran, husband — came broke to California. He borrowed $500 to set up shop. Now, at 30, he has plans for a Beverly Hills branch to open within six months (eight chairs, private booths, none of that Fairfax jazz.) He has intentions of a New York shop in less than a year and hopes for a concession at Neiman Marcus in Dallas.

Last week I watched the head man go to work on loyal customer George Peppard (“Hank Fonda sent me.”).

Sebring has a separate cutting room away from the main din. His customers enter by a side door (which star-struck girls have learned to peek in on their way home from junior high).

For 10 minutes, over coffee and cigarettes, Peppard and Sebring discussed what sort of design would be most appropriate for George’s upcoming role as the star of “The Carpetbaggers.” The problem was that Peppard had to be an old man and a young man in the course of one picture.

Then deft, dark, boyish Jay Sebring went to work with the surety of a surgeon. Wet, trim, pat, look, trim, snip, look, trim — by hand for a solid half-hour. Then a Sebring subaltern interrupted to ask the chief’s consultance on what to do with another customer who had “the longest face in the world.”

Sebring prescribed a solution, then returned to patient Peppard. After an hour, George had a remarkable two-way cut; his hair could either be hung boyishly over his forehead or smoothed back maturely on his scalp.

Sculptor and subject smiled into the mirrors, delighted. Peppard, however, as usual refused to sit still for the hair net that Sebring uses to set his work.

“It’s the one thing I can’t stand,” said George. “But I find that if you let Jay cut the way he wants, your hair will naturally fall back into place anyway. And doesn’t look peculiar. Which is very good for an actor.”

It appears to be very good for thousands of other fortunate men, too. Would that I had the time and the price and a few active follicles.

By ART SEIDENBAUM