Hair Care Part III: All About Eyelashes

Twiggy and I ventured away from all major subway lines (i.e. escape routes) as Glam drove us deeper into the Bronx. We went on highways, through tolls in and out of small towns until Glam dumped up in front of a small nail salon where everyone was getting long, plastic tips and glitter seemed to be the “it” thing. Glam instructed us to go the back where in small, private rooms the eyelash extending took place.

Twiggy and I tripped over patrons soaking their feet in basins only to discover that there was a lengthy waiting list of women waiting to have their eyelashes attended to. We scrawled our names on a piece of scrap paper and stood awkwardly on opposite corners of the salon as there were literally no available seats (apparently getting your nails done was a family activity – husbands and children actively participated).

I have rather sensitive, fluttery eyes. If diagnosed with a vision problem I’d be sentenced to a life with glasses, as contacts would not be an option. I can’t even put eye drops in effectively. Needless to say, my heart went out to the Asian woman misfortunate enough to have to perform this procedure on me. The application process involved me laying down trying to focus on dirty spots on the grey ceiling while she used tweezer-like tools to apply the fake eyelashes onto my own.

Despite the slight discomfort, the result was well worth it. Twiggy and I both felt like supermodels on the metro north train we took back into the city. This Bronx beatification had been an all day affair, and I couldn’t wait to get back to the familiar territory of Grand Central.

The best part about eyelash extensions is that you wake up everyday feeling ready to strut a runway. There’s no need for eyeliner or eye make-up of any sort. You’re ready to go out 24-7 – no effort required. It’s advised not to take hot showers as the steam can hinder the eyelash adhesive. For me, this wasn’t a problem. The lashes stayed in and felt solid for over two weeks. I even flew to London with them. That was the first red-eye flight that I skipped off of looking fabulous.

Then I got back to New York, and the eyelashes were still on. In fact, they showed no sign of ever falling off. It had been three weeks, and while I felt I had stretched my $15 to max, I was also acutely aware that I was beginning to look like a transvestite. See, the extensions grow out with your eyelashes (yes, eyelashes grow) so after three weeks they were absurdly long (and absurdly obvious). People began to ask about them (not so much what I was hoping for)…

I decided to follow the Asian Bronx woman’s trusty directions, which was to gently remove the eyelashes with warm water and baby oil. Twiggy had long ago removed hers with “lavender baby oil cream” which she suggested I purchase. Lots of gentle tugging and baby oil later the lashes hadn’t budged. That’s when panic set in.

The majority of panicked people in the US tend to turn to an arms/weaponry store or (more sanely) the Internet. On the web, I discovered that a special “eyelash remover” existed which dissolved the amazingly strong eyelash extension glue (why had I been avoiding hot showers this whole time? An industrial sauna wouldn’t put a dent in this stuff). This antidote to the eyelash glue can be compared to nail polish remover – smelly, strong, toxic and able to get the job done. Problem was that your average Duane Reade/drugstore didn’t carry this product.

More panic.

Luckily, I live near Chinatown and at one of those huge discount beauty supply stores I was able to locate a thimble size bottle of the miracle juice that would restore my eyelashes to their natural state.

Note: I never would have got through this on my own. I had a friend (we’ll call her Navy) who happened to be visiting. She took the eyelashes off dipping a q-tip in the magic juice and wiping it on my eyes. It took over 30 minutes, and we worried we’d need another bottle of anti-adhesive. I was trying not to cry.

The glue was insane stuff. And (of course) a lot of MY eyelashes came off in the process. When I looked in the mirror after all the trauma I felt like bald man. My eyelashes were sparse and tufty. I had gone from glamazon to pathetic in a way that no amount of mascara could fix. It was a sad, bitter day.

The good news is that eyelashes do grow back, and after two or three weeks my lashes experienced a full recovery.

Ever since then, I’ve just stuck to mascara. Ladies, make an informed decision before extending your eyelashes (which I hear in the city can cost $300 and up). For $15, I definitely got my glue-worth…

Hair Care, Part I

Call me Samson: my hair is my strength. For me, a haircut is as traumatic as the concept of open-heart surgery. Is this completely irrational? Yes. Does hair grow back? Yes. But the hairdresser who shredded your long, even locks has now sentenced you to the life of an ugly duckling for months. The kicker is that you PAID them to do this to you.

The majority of hairdressers on the planet struggle with a simple concept called LISTENING. Someone like me who has long hair (I like long), straight hair (I like straight), and plain hair (I like plain) sees a haircut as a simple maintenance job – much like the clipping of toenails or the oil change of a car. I’m looking for a slight enhancement, not a transformation. Hairdressers on the other hand, tend to view me as their own personal blank canvas upon which they will design an artistic masterpiece. This is why I usually end up looking
a. like a fifteen-year-old girl attending prom (who’s up-do could survive a hurricane intact)
b. like a spiky haired British boy (my least favorite since growing out time is six months plus)
c. like the wicked witch of the west from Wizard of Oz (since the hairdresser’s fashion-forward layers have made my hair uneven and pointy at the bottom) OR
d. like a Vogue cover girl (this usually involves giving me bangs) who without the daily assistance of an expert stylist looks like a cracked-out school teacher.

It’s amazing how the words “just a trim, please” can attain such a variety of styles. After having cursed the hairdressing profession for years, and having sobbed in one too many salon bathrooms, I stopped getting professional haircuts. Best decision I ever made – cause let’s face it; burning twenty dollar bills over your stove is less painful than watching your entire face change shape after paying someone to trim i.e. shave your head.

Alas, having my roommate cut my hair (with me watching in a mirror and approving every snip while breathing into a paper bag) could only last so long. My ends became drier than straw and my splits a noticeable embarrassment. Something had to be done.

Since years of experience had taught me that I’d most likely loathe the outcome of my haircut, I decided that I wouldn’t spend money on it (I mean really, what’s the point of paying someone to make you miserable when most of your family members are willing to do it for free). I also have a personal theory that the more expensive the salon, and the more “genius” the hairdresser, the wackier they make you look. When they’ve taken $500 from you they have to justifying it by making you look really different (hence your transformation from YOU to some shaggified, layer-ized cliché). If they don’t do something radical for half a grand it’s like they’re crooks! (Which, P.S., they are.)

Determined not to get screwed over once again, me and one of my more adventurous friends (we’ll call her Twiggy) decided to venture into the Bronx for a cheap haircut down and dirty style. Twiggy and I worked briefly as hostesses together in a restaurant before driven away by the unrelenting abuse that is the Manhattan service sector. Our glamorous Hispanic co-worker constantly encouraged us to visit her local salon in the Bronx where she swore we’d be satisfied (the hairdresser was like her grandmother once removed…or something). We listened and brushed the idea off, but when Glam mentioned that we could also get eyelash extensions up in Bronxland for as little as $15 the idea became irresistible. This was right when lay women had discovered the secret of eyelash extensions (Epiphany: That’s why Giselle looks so good!?!?) and it was a must have. In New York you needed to get glued or get out.

Thus, Twiggy and I embarked on a 4 express train and were carried up to unfamiliar territory to have or hair cut and our eyelashes lengthened.

In the Bronx, horror, surprise, and yes, beautification ensued.

To Be Continued…

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Although shopping for handbags is not hard, shopping according to the fashion is. Since that rules out the wholesale handbags which are the biggest source. Shopping for fashionable swimwear is a nightmare indeed.