Burning Beautification Questions Answered

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

Journey to Los Angeles

As someone who aspires to write for film and television, every time I visit Los Angeles what I’m really doing is asking myself if I could ever live there. The difference between New York and Los Angeles, the pros and the cons, is a constant topic of interest debated among my friends. I find the cities so fundamentally different I’m actually fascinated anyone manages to successfully transfer from one to the other without significant psychotherapy. By New York, most people mean only Manhattan, where everything is an easy cab or subway ride away. I walk the majority of places I need to go. Everything’s so close together I have in one evening zoomed from Tribeca to the Upper East Side, to Chelsea to the Lower East and back home again with out even breaking a sweat. In Los Angeles, getting from one place to another is what I imagine the ancient practice of Chinese water torture must of felt like. Hours passed trapped in a car where the only physical activity allowed is foot on break-foot on gas-foot on break-foot on gas. I found I could only indulge in one activity a day, since getting anywhere required such unreasonable chunks of time. I’ve never understood how such a large metropolis is able to function when every singe resident over age sixteen owns and drives a car. How does that work? How is there enough space? The answer is there’s not. I saw traffic on Wilshire, Sunset and the 405 I’d thought only existed in Al Gore’s most stress-inducing nightmares. Eight lane highways packed with cars not even managing a crawl but fully stopped. How do the natives tolerate this?

Let’s put a pause on my rant and preface this entry by saying I have a lot of friends who love LA and I have nothing against the city personally (besides the fact the automotive industry there is slowly disintegrating our planet and at this rate my children will be wearing oxygen masks when walking to school and fresh water will become a commodity valued higher than oil…sorry, sorry, I’ll stop). Everyone should rock out in LA. It’s a great place. It’s just not for me. And no one can say I didn’t do the city right. I stayed at the infamous Beverly Hills Hotel i.e. “The Pink Palace” and had I never left the premises would’ve been happy as clam. The hotel is one of the most beautiful establishments I’ve ever been in, a true oasis in Beverly Hills. My room was fantastic, the service impeccable (should be for what you’re paying, but still – I was blown away) and the pool and gardens are exactly how I envisioned the Garden of Eden. Poolside breakfast was heavenly. You’re seated in huge comfy booths ideal for people watching, and surrounded by potted lemon trees and the soothing sound of a trickling fountain. My personal favorite amenity was that while swimming underwater in the pool you hear classical music. I fluttered around in my red suit and goggles enjoying Mozart and feeling I’d come as close as physically possible to enacting my childhood dream of becoming the Little Mermaid. I also got a great work out since I wanted to be underwater as much as possible, lest I miss a note of Beethoven’s Fifth.

I knew I had landed on a planet far from my little island of Manhattan when sitting for breakfast in the Polo Lounge on my first morning there. A lanky “woman” arrived with a long face and a prom-like up-do held in place with industrial strength hairspray. I put “woman” in quotes because for me, she was more like a creature than an actual human being. She belongs to a species of women I call Skelatrons. She was dressed head to toe in designer apparel that her frail body barely managed to support. I feared that at any moment her skirt might fall to her ankles, simply because she had no hips or waist to hold it in place. Her skin was paler than mine (a challenging task) and she had coated her face in a white foundation that made her look like a hybrid between a geisha and a cross dresser. To top it off, she had absurdly long jet-black fake eyelashes. I thought she might slump over the table and die just from the weight of them. Skelly was by far the most frightening Los Angeles woman I saw, but there were many rivals for second place. I saw woman so face-lifted they looked like aliens, so tan they looked like snakes, so plasticized they looked a flotation device and so blonde that I swear they must have been wearing wigs.

Coming up, celebrity sightings and the LA nightlife scene (and yes, a run in with the princess of disgrace Paris Hilton…)

To Be Continued…

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 II: Journey into the Bronx

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.

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…

***

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.