Most of us can admit to having ‘a type,’ an ideal of what we think we’re attracted to. No matter how much we hold onto it, we’ll all at some point surprise ourselves by being attracted to someone who doesn’t fit our ‘type’ definition. Obviously. Because its actually scented pheromones that govern the laws of attraction, not our eyes.

Nevertheless, some women always seem to date tall men. Some guys always date blonde girls. Things can get switched around and changed up, but it seems these variables rarely apply to hair. Meaning that if your type is dark skin, dark eyes and longish hair the scenario in which you’d most likely date an albino is if they had longish hair as well.

Why?

I think it has to do with the fact that hair represents someone’s overall fashion sense and lifestyle choice, making it a powerful identifier for the people you’re romantically drawn to. Your man’s hair is also a huge reflection on you. For example, my friend serially dates men with receding hairlines I find loathsome and she deems handsome.

Diagnosis: She admits to having daddy issues and therefore is after a more mature, caretaker kind of guy. This got us making a whole list… Continue reading here

Who has time to take long chunks out of their work day for necessary beauty maintenance?

Not me.

That’s why I always find myself bribing salon receptionists for the coveted Saturday afternoon appointment. A lengthy color treatment is now eating my weekend, but at least I’m not biting my nails, staring at my watch to make sure I’m back in the office for a 2pm conference call.

This is why I jumped at the opportunity to check out the Xac Anthony Salon in Chelsea, fabled to be a party and beautification palace all in one. Friday the salon is open till 10:30pm and the drink is expertly mixed margaritas. On Thursday, Cosmos and martinis are passed around so you can and primp and pre-game simultaneously till midnight.

Talk about spicing up the typically boring, magazine-flipping visit to the hairdresser!

I stepped in the 2,200 square foot salon on a Friday evening and felt instantly relaxed. Maybe because I was instantly offered alcohol and chocolate bon bons. The salon’s DJ mixed lounge-like beats and ladies walked from pedicure appointments to blowouts to make-up application with drinks in hand. In short, this is a sophisticated one stop service for all your beauty needs with a focus on fun. In the summer, you can even have your hair cut and colored outside while sunning on the furnished rooftop. There’s a spa offering facials and five different types of massage downstairs. And if you want to get really crazy, the celebrity tattoo artist Friday Jones can give you ink.

Xavier Cruz, celebrity stylist and trendsetter with an impressive resume, gave my hair a deep conditioning treatment. For me deep conditioning treatments have always consisted of getting my hair lathered with a thick chunky substance and being left under a dryer for forty minutes.

Not here!

Cruz gave my head an intensely pleasurable Japanese massage, healed my highly damaged scalp, and conditioned my hair with a wonderfully orange smelling substance, methodically, section by section. Instead of passing me off to an assistant, he took me to the sink himself. After filling the basin, he lapped warm water over and over again on my head for ten minutes, explaining that the conditioner absorbed into my hair best if left submerged. I felt like a mermaid. Oh, and the Japanese massage continued with my hair under water. By the time I was getting my hair blown out and styled, my scalp was tingling with happiness – and it wasn’t because I was on margarita number four.

I left the salon feeling empowered to hit my Friday night running. And if you bring two girlfriends, the three of you get 20% off all services.

I resisted asking Cruz if I could move in with him.

Men: Put it down! Throw it out. Step on it. This is the number one backstabbing product available for commercial purchase.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I’ve seen guys sans hair gel that I deemed hot enough to want to get cozy in a hot tub with and then later when they’re gel-ed out (I’m guessing in a misguided effort to dress up / impress) I’m unable to even view them as a sexual being. Any chemistry or attraction has been brutally murdered to the extent that recovery isn’t possible. Setting the product aflame once I’ve seen you in it won’t help. The image of you with your head incased in what looks like frying pan grease has taken up permanent residence in my brain in the area called, “things that disgust me to the point of self-mutilation.”

One of my exes appeared one night with the very tippy-top of his semi-curly locks lightly stiffened, frosted so subtly not even his mother would pick up on it. My reaction was a shrill:

“WHAT DID YOU DO!?!?!?”

He admitted he’d lightly glossed his dry locks with conditioner. It wasn’t as horrific in texture or glean as gel, so we were able to recover after several choruses of me reprimanding over the sink as he washed it out, “Why would you DO that!? Are you trying to make me never want to sleep with you again?”

I don’t want to date someone who experiments with conditioner on his dry hair when getting ready to go out. I don’t want to touch a man who spends quality time each evening with his mirror and a bottle of gel. I want to date a MAN. You know, one who chases things, is often dumb, fights to defend my honor, dresses well enough that I won’t criticize him but not better than me, one who is completely clueless that hair enhancing products like gel exist for his gender.

If I wanted to date someone who was into hair products I’d go out with the gay, Brazilian hairdresser who does my highlights or a girl. Men, the world of gel is just not your arena – primarily because it’s an arena which requires intense self-control and a high ability to perceive, mimic and execute couture fashion.

This leads me into my next point. If you consider yourself one of those special men with off the chart aesthetic abilities who needs gel to keep unruly hair under control, feel free to use it as long as us females can’t tell it’s there. If you can execute product application in a way that makes your hair naturally Antonio Banderas-like, you won’t hear me complaining because I'll be in the dark. If you can achieve this without the help of a professional stylist, go for it. Otherwise, boot-kick those products out of your window now. Believe it or not, being manly - i.e. different from us, is actually the number one reason we like you.

*****

Also, what is this SubMercer bullcrazy that I’m never-ending reading about? (That’s a rhetorical question, I know what it is. What I don’t know is why we need more and more ‘exclusive’ places on the New York City nightlife crash course.) Can’t it just be like you get into Beatrice, Bungalow and Rose Bar and then graduate? Stop. End. No more additional challenges except seeing how many cartons of Ben and Jerry’s you can polish off in one Saturday night sitting?

*****

For ladies who want to dance their pants off without doorman, drinks or drama, check out this new lead my girlfriend clued me in on: DanceDancePartyParty.com You can even take classes here. Reports on how fun it was and how silly I felt next week.

It’s not unlikely that around this time of year you may start to feel those cursed A, B, C, Ds:

Alone

Bothered

Confused and

Depressed.

The winter work crunch is on, the carefree days of summer are a distant memory and to make it all worse you have the elves, wreathes, shiny holiday bells and obnoxious carols to remind you that the financial and emotional evil that is Christmas lurks just around the corner. As the East Coast weather hops from mid-sixties, to thirties, back to sixties, you may find your constantly wearing the wrong jacket and in a kind of emotional schizophrenia. You may find yourself:

Becoming absurdly tired from a simple night out on the town…

Eating tyrannosaurus rex portions of pie…

Lying listless by an open fire…staring at a spec of chipped paint on the wall…for hours…

Curled up under your comforter in the fetal position with all your apartment lights on…for hours…

Buying leather dominatrix boots you don’t need on whim because they were Steve by Steve Madden and $100 off…

Agonizing over holiday plans and what to do on Christmas’ bastard stepchild of a holiday, New Years.

Wait. Who are we talking about again?

Anyway. Rather then deal with the fact that my emotional and mental stability is disintegrating, I’ve decided to ignore the fact that it’s winter and add some sunshine to my life by going blonde.

Super blonde.

Yes, I’m already blonde, but the ‘I-was-white-blonde-as-a-child, my-hair-got-darker, I- used-Sun In-in-middle-school, and-now-get-partial-highlights-twice-a-year-that-look- miraculously-natural’ kind of blonde, which translates to dirty blonde. I want to take the ‘dirty’ part out of the equation and return to that blinding white blondeness that is such a challenge to maintain.

Maintenance is currently the least of my concerns. I want to get high on highlights. I want to have so much tin foil in my hair that I run the risk of brain damage via peroxide.

That’s how gloriously blonde I want to be.

Hopefully, it will trigger some sort of attitude reform. Maybe I’ll get more attention. Maybe more people will treat me like I’m a moron. It’s my personal hope that my unsavory nightlife acquaintances and the drama-inducing Mr. Grey will no longer even recognize me. Maybe the peroxide will kill enough of my brain cells so that I can become an actual ditz and stop being so damn self-aware.

Who knew hair dye could be the solution to so many problems?

Since I absolutely refuse to have my hair cut by anyone who claims to be a ‘stylist’ or works in a salon (stories about my hair dresser-phobia here), and have begun mistrusting colorists as well (not to mention it’s a rip off), I’ll be getting my do-up on Friday at my wonderful Brazilian friend’s Upper East side apartment. She’s colored my hair before and does a fantastic job (note: Brazilians are really good at anything cosmetic related). It’s way more pleasurable than going to Licari for example since we chill, talk, watch TV, and gossip about our entire group of friends uninterrupted without house music blasting in the background or vodka in our hands. I shower post-treatment at her place, give her eighty bucks and we call it a day.

Reports on my transformation to blonde swan this weekend….

Love at first sight is the only way to describe the instantaneous relationship between me and the Mykonos coastal town of Hora. There are no cars in the center, so you can finally relax since there’s no longer a chance that you’ll
a) die in a fatal car accident or
b) be walking down the narrow, sidewalk-less streets and be killed by a passing vehicle.
In the town center, you can finally let your guard down and meander in chic European style. The roads are cobblestone, winding and so narrow that only two to four bodies can pass through at a given time. The buildings are pure white against the deep blue Mediterranean and the town is a kind of boisterous labyrinth: bars, trendy restaurants and blasting music can fade away in one turn to reveal art galleries, quiet rooftop restaurants, houses with potted plants, clothing stores, souvenir shops or churches. If you follow the maze down to the waterfront you see magnificent yachts and cruise ships sparkling in the distance. Seafood restaurants line the sea’s main piazza. If you head toward Mykonos’ signature windmills, there’s an area called Little Venice where the sidewalk dangerously narrows and you feel as if you’re walking along canals, the ocean lapping right below your feet.

Golden and I had our first meal at a trendy restaurant called Coo in the center of Hora. We inappropriately hadn’t made a reservation but were seated almost immediately when Golden recognized an old friend from Athens who had now retired from mainland life and was apparently Coo’s owner.

“He used to own a really popular bar in Athens and I was dating the other owner’s ex-girlfriend,” Golden explained over drinks at Coo’s long, white bar.

“So if you were banging his business partners ex doesn’t he hate you?” I asked confused.

“That’s why we’re having drinks at the bar before we’re seated.” Golden said sipping his Heineken with a smile.

At Coo we had the best lobster risotto I’ve ever had in my life. None of this stingy American invisible lobster morsels in your food crap. We had an entire, Mediterranean crustation in our risotto, pulled right out of the nearby sea. Delicious.

After sleeping in, our days were spent taking the car and checking out various beaches, the roads to which, merit a novel themselves. Steep and treacherous aren’t words that do these back roads justice. Imagine navigating a stick shift Smart car through blind turns on dusty un-paven cliffs. My nails would be digging into the dashboard until making that one turn which would reveal the sparkling ocean and the beach below, forcing me to exhale and relax.

Day one we chilled on nearby Paradise beach, lovely except for the screaming spoiled Greek children nearby. After we relocated, I still wasn’t able to fully concentrate on my book since I was now in direct view of Mykonos’ Paradise beach lifeguard, appropriately the hottest man I’ve ever seen. As if it couldn’t get any better, day two we trekked to Super Paradise beach (this is actually it’s legitimate name, I have photos of the road signs to prove it.)

Super Paradise had no children, a lot of topless women and the occasional naked old man, hoards of young people, and music from three different sources, forcing you to choose your own beat. The ocean was salty to the extreme and the entire beach Caribbean-like in the water’s purity. No seaweed or fish/animals anywhere – just the sun’s jigsaw puzzle designs. I once or twice freaked out that there was something splashing in the water with me, but quickly realized it was my own bikini’s bow-tied strings. Yeah, in seawater I’m the biggest scardy-cat loser ever. I blame my father who let me watch all three Jaws movies consecutively in one sitting at age nine. I still haven’t recovered.

Since my spastic, fast-paced, Manhattan wired body isn’t used to this kind of intense relaxation, it’s compensating by giving me horrific, stress-inducing dreams. Isn’t it fascinating how our body chemistry attempts to retain a sense of normality? The bad news for me is that my ‘normal’ equals a rushed, panicked physical experience similar to that of an ulcer. Thanks to my dreams, which have ranged from me getting swallowed by a giant tsunami-like tidal wave, being betrayed by my closest friends, abandoned in the woods, and left to violent grizzly bears, I’ve developed a canker sore the size of a small crater on the right side of my mouth. This is the only physically malady I have to report at this point. The large cigarette burn on my knee bestowed on me by Bartok’s Marlboro light the evening we went to Per Lei has healed well thanks to my excessive salt water bathing, and it doesn’t look like it will permanently scar.

In other local news, I’ve morphed into a kind of blonde Bob Marley as the seawater has transformed my long hair into white-girl dreadlocks. If there’s a real victim in this vacation so far it’s my hair, which follows a routine a salt-water – pool chlorine – salt-water – shitty shampoo – salt water everyday. Greek hotels (even the nice ones) don’t seem think conditioner’s a life-necessity (insanity, right?!) and refuse to provide it. Those of you who’ve followed this blog since it’s early stages know that my hair’s an especially sensitive topic, and I intend on entering my locks into deep-conditioning rehab the moment I return to civilization. Soon however, my bladder will be in need of rehab as well. Those of you who’ve enjoyed by good-hearted mocking of aSmallWorld.net will be intrigued to know that there is aSW part right here on Mykonos, and I’m a confirmed attendant. Does aSmallWorld offer real life fun? Something besides a sense of internet-networking superiority? While slightly concerned about the effect alcohol consumption will have on my already LSD, psychotic level nightmares, I intent to find out. All this and more, stay tuned.

To my male readers, apologies in advance since this (like my faux purse article) might not interest you in that same burning, passionate way my usual writing about drunk women making fools of themselves does. I plan on partying in the Manhattan clubbing jungle this evening, and will hopefully procure some worthwhile stories. So I promise to make this up to you tomorrow. Ladies, below are some questions I’ve received from friends and from you via email and comments. Here are my personal tips and tricks of the trade (questions are appropriately paraphrased in my own words):

How do I get my mascara to stay ON my eyelashes over the course of a long night instead of under my eyes like a cracked-out raccoon?

Sadly, there is no product or particular brand of mascara that doesn’t smear / stays on your eyes no matter what. The only solution is to never touch your eyes and to never EVER rub them no matter how tipsy and tired you get. That said, should you go into the bathroom and notice that you are morphing into a raccoon, there are ways in which you can prepare.

I feel most of us do (and should) carry around a mini-size bottle of our favorite moisturizer or foundation. Throw this in your party purse with a few Q-tips. Q-tips are every girl’s best friend. I buy them in bulk. If you notice make-up under your eyes just put some moisturizer on a Q-tip and wipe it away. It works miraculously well and moistens under you eyes (which God knows will be appreciated when you look like a puff princess the next morning and have to go to work.) My mascara of choice is the Lancôme collection Hypnosis, although you’ll need to know the right one for your eyelash situation. That’s when those annoying beauty store clerks actually become useful.

My crazy-insider tip of the trade? I put Vaseline on my eyelashes and let it sink in / soak for a few minutes before applying mascara. Why? Well, I feel bad for the abusive make-up routine I put my eyes through, and Vaseline protects and moisturizes your eyelash hair. I also feel it makes the mascara go on smoother, shinier, and blacker. Origins makes “underwear for your lashes” pre-mascara. It’s a white colored undercoat, and helps avoid clumping as well. Bartok has it and the few times I’ve used it, I’ve been a huge fan. Unfortunately, I’m too cheap to buy it myself so go the classy Vaseline route. Users Note! The Vaseline will make your eyes especially smuge-able, lethally-so before it fully sets. So do not touch your eyes!

My hair is limper than a rag doll's. What do I do?

Volumizing my hair is kind of like trying to find a decent TV show on cable. You try, and you try, you think you have it, and then it falls flat. Not to worry. Only in these recent weeks have I come across a solution. It’s called use ton and TONS of product – more than you ever thought necessary (or practical). I’ve always hated this over application route. My hair is baby fine and would inevitably look oilier and stickier than a left over Chinese dinner. Not anymore. The line you’ve gotta be using is Kerastase.
I never believed in hair products until they came along. The products are not as expensive as you might think, and the shampoo and conditioner last an incredibly long time since only a dime size amount is required.

I towel dry my hair, apply Kerastase gel and comb through. My whole life, I thought gel was only for people with afros and guidos with product abuse issues. Come to find out, it works miracles on even simple, straight hair. Next, I apply Kerastase’s mousse and blow dry A LOT with my head upside down, brushing away from the roots (and preferably listening to tacky going-out music to get myself in the beautiful mood). What I love about this product line, is that my hair actually looks even BETTER than it normally would when I wake up hunger over the next day. Kerastase products don’t stick, create gross shine, or make hair untouchable. They just give you soft, volume for 48 hours straight!

What’s your secret weapon product?

Easy. Elizabeth Arden 8-Hour Moisturizing Cream. It works for everything: shimmer on the eyes, reducing circles under eyes, intense healer for dry skin and the BEST lip gloss on the planet. I never went on-camera without it all over myself, and colored lipstick underneath isn’t even necessary.

Runners-up:

MAC Blotting Powder kills oil fast so you don’t look like a Pro-Activ Before commercial in photos.

Cetephil – I wash my face with it every chance I get. Don’t pay to go to a dermatologist, they’ll just tell you to use Cetephal.

Oil of Olay Sensitive Skin Moisturizer with SPF 15. It’s the only moisturizer I’ve found that’s a dream under make-up, absorbs quickly, and doesn’t make your face oily. Plus you can forgo sunscreen. I use it daily since I pride myself on being paler than Snow White the animated cartoon.

Are eyelash extensions a good idea?

Yes and no. I refer you to the article I wrote solely on the intriguing topic.

Hair extensions? Tacky?

NOT IF YOU CAN’T SEE THEM! I only got on the hair extension bandwagon in the past six months, and have been loving the ride ever since. Years ago in Milan, I always used to feel like the ugly duckling since my female Italian counterparts had mermaid hair all the way down their back, thicker than a football quarterback’s neck. I thought they were just blessed with great Mediterranean genes. WRONG. They were all rocking hair extensions, the painful kind that a professional weaves into your hair. That always seemed like too much of a commitment for me, so while I was wildly jealous, I stayed extension-less. Now however, there are clip in extensions that you can take in and out at you leisure. They’re invisible to a non-hair-professional and take mere moments to snap in. Just make sure no one affectionately grabs the back of your head, since depending on how observant they are, they might feel the lumpy clip and think you’re the bride of Frankenstein with bolts in the back of your head. If you’re up for it I’d say

a. invest in human hair (synthetic IS tacky)
b. don’t buy it online, but from your salon (many can custom color the hair to perfectly match your own)
c. take proper care of them (this means an occasional washing to kill the stench of cigarette smoke)
d. try not to think too much about the fact that this hair was probably originally from some nun in India.

Ladies enjoy, and remember we’re all naturally beautiful; make-up and fake hair just enhance our already stunning features. Or in the words of my Barbie-doll mother, her head tilted, eyes wide:

“Why wouldn’t you do everything and anything possible to look better?”

A sequel to this post will come soon.


Earth & Water Mascara Duo

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…

Twiggy and I hid our angst gossiping with one another while watching triple digit streets emerge outside our subway window (you always know your train’s left Manhattan when the subway stops begin to appear above ground). Within moments, we were whizzing into the Bronx. Twiggy and Glam had organized this scheme; I was merely a participant, so I was forced to constantly ask Twiggy if she knew where we were going (being an annoying backseat subway rider. It’s amazing she didn’t slap me). Miraculously, we got off at the correct stop, an outdoor subway platform at 246th St (or something) in the Bronx, and proceeded down a rickety set of stairs into what to me, looked like a never-ending Spanish Harlem. I was the only white person, anywhere. I don’t say this as an exaggeration. I was sticking out like sore thumb - a fish out of water. Twiggy and I were both out of our element.

We followed Twiggy’s “directions” from Glam walking through block after block of liquor store after convenient store after liquor store (quite remarkable how we didn’t come across anything else). The natives shuffled through the streets glaring at us, all of them drinking from inside brown paper bags. It came to my attention that they even drank sodas from brown paper bags, perhaps to help the local alcoholics blend in. It occurred to me that this was considerate and that these were all probably extremely nice people with hopes and dreams and families and houses and fish…hmm, maybe not pet fish. Anyway, after crossing an extremely busy highway-like street Twiggy and I arrived at the infamous salon: a small falling-down room with a Spanish telenovela playing on a tiny TV in the corner filled with overweight Hispanic old ladies wearing too much lipstick. Part of the salon (the room attached) was, surprise surprise, a convenient store.

I’m not sure what I had been expecting up to that point, but it wasn’t this. I didn’t have time to linger on such a reflection because a new, more pressing obstacle immediately presented itself. No one in the salon spoke English.

No one.

The TV was in Spanish, the magazines were in Spanish, the old women chatted in Spanish, even the young-ish assistant type looking girl with admirably long yellow nails only spoke Spanish.

Hence we had to call and wake up Glam, explain to her the haircuts we wanted, and then hand the phone to the large Spanish woman in charge so Glam could subsequently translate our instructions. Remember how I thought miscommunication in hairdressing was a major problem? This was taking it to a new level.

* * *

Twiggy and I got soaped up and cut while still not being able to communicate with a single person in the place. I felt like I had landed in a foreign country where sign language and smiling are your only options. I spent my time flipping through Latina, exchanging nervous glances with Twiggy, and praying Glam had given correct instructions to the woman putting absurd amounts of product in my hair.

Our scalps were conditioned with a large white industrial looking bottle that had “Whale Sperm” written on it in big black letters. This made Twiggy and I cock an eyebrow, and we hoped that it was in fact whale sperm...and not some other kind of sperm (if you get my drift.) Despite our concern, after several visits to the sink and what felt like hours under hot rollers, I saw myself in the dingy mirror with the best haircut I’ve ever had. I left the place feeling like a supermodel, tossing my head right and left like those ridiculous girls in the Pantene Pro-V ads. Then I remembered where I was and promptly hid my blonde locks under my hoodie. Twiggy had even started drinking her diet coke out of a paper bag. We were beginning to fit in.

Oh, and the price (I had to pay for the haircut at the convenient store’s cash register) a whopping $17.95. Yeah. I gave a big tip.

Glam had come by the salon to pick us up in her ghetto-fabulous car to take us to our next stop: The $15 eyelash extension place two towns over.

Tomorrow I’ll discuss the art of eyelash extensions, an analysis which will be useful to any woman considering them.

That (men, be relieved) will conclude the beauty portion of this week’s discussion.

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…

***

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.