De-mystifying the Beauty Process

(October 30, 2002)

I wish I had Gene Dante's eyebrows. I don't mean I wish I had them in a jar or anything...I mean I wish MY eyebrows could look like that. His brows arc attractively in such a meaningful way. Those brows have expression.

Eyebrow shaping. Art or science? I do it too, but very carefully. That venture can go so wrong so, so quickly.

I consider myself lucky that I can deal with my hair; I've always cut it myself, and I haven't hacked it to "Hm, Hats Are Nice" as yet. People freak when they find out I cut my own hair. What, it's just hair? It'll grow back. Maybe my fearlessness is based on the fact that my mother did the classic drop-out-of-high-school-and-go-to-beauty school thing in the sixties, so I grew up with her cutting my hair, her hair, etc. It's just what you do. I have friends who spend like, fifty, sixty bucks on a haircut and they think it looks special or something. Meanwhile they look exactly like they did yesterday, except poorer.

I'm often at a bit of a loss as far as hair product though. OH sure, I moussed in the eighties, who didn't? But as far as expertise...I don't have it. What's that "wax" stuff, for example? Wax, really?

That reminds me of a recent Bad Gel Experience. It was just about a month ago, I think, because I'm thinking it was Twisted Rico's Animal Rescue Benefit in September. I walked to TT's (it's about a mile) in the rain. I don't care about rain and I don't even own an umbrella. Wet hair doesn't bother me. But when I got to the club, I went to smooth my hair with my hand, and it felt like I'd just stuck my fingers into hairy toothpaste.

Not much of a product-user normally, that night I'd used gel to tame my Einstein-alicious mane of wildness. And it got wet, I guess.

I had no idea what to do. I was like, hopelessly shipwrecked with gunky hair. Then, like a beacon in the stormy night, salvation.

We're not exactly close friends or anything, though we have friends in common.

But this was serious.

"Um...help? I...it's....sticky..." I whined. Paula responded with the speed and precision of a Navy SEAL, if Navy SEALs could coordinate a wardrobe and write smart pop songs. Quickly assessing the situation, she called for reenforcements (Shari) and whisked into the ladies room to show me how you deal with wet gel by pinching and twirling the hair in spiky tendrils.

It worked. Fascinating.

Maybe Gene Dante will do my brows for me.