I pictured him struggling to get back in control.
“I guess if we’re going to do this decorating thing, you should see where I live,” he said finally. “Can you come over Saturday?”
I hesitated. I had to see his place if I planned to furnish it, but why did the idea of going over there make me so uncomfortable?
“Um, sure. Give me your address.”
“That’s a big commitment. I haven’t given a woman my address since my last divorce became final.” He chuckled, pleased by his own little joke. But he reeled it off, and I had a feeling that this time, he wasn’t going to miss our meeting.
I headed out of the showroom, pausing by the front door to look at a neo-Victorian mirror with inlays of polished metal. I glimpsed myself in the glass, and my hands reflexively flew to my face.
“Awful,” I gasped loudly.
“Everyone hates that piece,” said the receptionist, misinterpreting. She closed her InStyle magazine — which was the only place she’d see celebrities today. “I don’t know why it’s right in front.”
The mirror frame looked a lot better than I did. My skin seemed mottled, I had bags under my eyes, and what was going on with my hair? Maybe I couldn’t do much about my dark mood, but I could definitely fight back against my dark roots.
Outside, I pulled out my cell phone and hit *11 on the speed dial. Like most of the moms I knew, once my kids grew up enough that I could take the nursery school number off speed dial, I replaced it with my hair colorist’s. Who wants to get older when you can just get blonder? So many of us worshiped at the peroxide altar of youth that an appointment with Alain was harder to get than a private audience with the Dalai Lama.
I decided to give it my best shot. When Alain’s assistant, Andre, came on the phone, I outlined my problems. All of them. Hair crisis and personal disaster. I felt a little guilty gossiping about myself, but better me than anyone else.
“So it’s an emergency,” said Andre sympathetically.
“Dire emergency,” I said. “If you’re doing triage, consider me the equivalent of a massive heart attack on Oscar night.”
Andre laughed. “Come right over. I’ll try to squeeze you in.”
Bless the man. Next holiday season, I’d upgrade his gift from a wool Polo sweater to cashmere. Alain himself took the guesswork out of saying thanks — he stayed registered at Barneys year-round.
I made my way over to North Camden Drive in Beverly Hills and slipped inside, past the usual cast of power clients. Instead of being a hairdresser to the stars, Alain worked for the women behind the stars. For Hollywood networking, his salon was the estrogen-laced equivalent of Monday nights at Morton’s. I spotted a chair-hopping talent agent chatting up a studio development exec, and a screenwriter advising a Warner Brothers vice president to go brunette. “Much more dramatic,” she said in a low voice. “And trust me, I know drama .” Amid the streaking, peroxide applications, and wholesale highlighting, more movie deals got made at Alain’s than on the ninth green at the Bel Air Country Club.
I changed into a thin robe and sat down in a soft chair that faced a wall of mirrors. Good lighting, so I didn’t look nearly as terrifying here as I had in the showroom. Alain came up behind me dressed in blue jeans and a crisp black shirt, his own hair crewcut short and light brown. The style changed regularly but always stayed understated. Alain didn’t do flamboyant.
“I’m glad you came in,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Are you all right?” He knew what was going on, of course. He knew everything.
“I’m fine. Just my hair’s a problem. Murky in the middle and brassy on the ends.”
“Oh, dearest, it’s never just about the hair,” he whispered. “You can confess to me.”
I caught his eye in the mirror and suddenly felt tears welling up. For unloading emotion, a session with Alain beat a private appointment with
“I guess if we’re going to do this decorating thing, you should see where I live,” he said finally. “Can you come over Saturday?”
I hesitated. I had to see his place if I planned to furnish it, but why did the idea of going over there make me so uncomfortable?
“Um, sure. Give me your address.”
“That’s a big commitment. I haven’t given a woman my address since my last divorce became final.” He chuckled, pleased by his own little joke. But he reeled it off, and I had a feeling that this time, he wasn’t going to miss our meeting.
I headed out of the showroom, pausing by the front door to look at a neo-Victorian mirror with inlays of polished metal. I glimpsed myself in the glass, and my hands reflexively flew to my face.
“Awful,” I gasped loudly.
“Everyone hates that piece,” said the receptionist, misinterpreting. She closed her InStyle magazine — which was the only place she’d see celebrities today. “I don’t know why it’s right in front.”
The mirror frame looked a lot better than I did. My skin seemed mottled, I had bags under my eyes, and what was going on with my hair? Maybe I couldn’t do much about my dark mood, but I could definitely fight back against my dark roots.
Outside, I pulled out my cell phone and hit *11 on the speed dial. Like most of the moms I knew, once my kids grew up enough that I could take the nursery school number off speed dial, I replaced it with my hair colorist’s. Who wants to get older when you can just get blonder? So many of us worshiped at the peroxide altar of youth that an appointment with Alain was harder to get than a private audience with the Dalai Lama.
I decided to give it my best shot. When Alain’s assistant, Andre, came on the phone, I outlined my problems. All of them. Hair crisis and personal disaster. I felt a little guilty gossiping about myself, but better me than anyone else.
“So it’s an emergency,” said Andre sympathetically.
“Dire emergency,” I said. “If you’re doing triage, consider me the equivalent of a massive heart attack on Oscar night.”
Andre laughed. “Come right over. I’ll try to squeeze you in.”
Bless the man. Next holiday season, I’d upgrade his gift from a wool Polo sweater to cashmere. Alain himself took the guesswork out of saying thanks — he stayed registered at Barneys year-round.
I made my way over to North Camden Drive in Beverly Hills and slipped inside, past the usual cast of power clients. Instead of being a hairdresser to the stars, Alain worked for the women behind the stars. For Hollywood networking, his salon was the estrogen-laced equivalent of Monday nights at Morton’s. I spotted a chair-hopping talent agent chatting up a studio development exec, and a screenwriter advising a Warner Brothers vice president to go brunette. “Much more dramatic,” she said in a low voice. “And trust me, I know drama .” Amid the streaking, peroxide applications, and wholesale highlighting, more movie deals got made at Alain’s than on the ninth green at the Bel Air Country Club.
I changed into a thin robe and sat down in a soft chair that faced a wall of mirrors. Good lighting, so I didn’t look nearly as terrifying here as I had in the showroom. Alain came up behind me dressed in blue jeans and a crisp black shirt, his own hair crewcut short and light brown. The style changed regularly but always stayed understated. Alain didn’t do flamboyant.
“I’m glad you came in,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Are you all right?” He knew what was going on, of course. He knew everything.
“I’m fine. Just my hair’s a problem. Murky in the middle and brassy on the ends.”
“Oh, dearest, it’s never just about the hair,” he whispered. “You can confess to me.”
I caught his eye in the mirror and suddenly felt tears welling up. For unloading emotion, a session with Alain beat a private appointment with
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