We all have – it can’t just be me, can it? – this secret fantasy that one day we’ll break through and be the incredible beauty we were always supposed to be.
On a toutes – comment ça, non, seulement moi ? – au fond de nous ce fantasme qu’un jour nous sera révélée la beauté fatale que nous avons en nous.
I call it the fantasy of the makeover and I swear I’ll always remember the day when I met Christophe Robin, colorist to the stars who are worth it, at a cocktail hour (ah, the dream life of a blogger) and he said to me:
“Come drop by Meurice. I’d love to take care of you!”
Right away, these were my thoughts:
1/ Just like everyone else, I loooooove Meurice.
2/ Just like everyone who’s ever met him, I loooooove Christophe Robin.
3/ And just like every woman ever, I looooooove colorists to the stars.
Because if the stars are at the pinnacle of their own beauty, it’s only because someone once made them over. It’s because someone once said to them, “Oh no, Scarlett, I see you as a golden blonde.” “And you Cate, a venetian red.” “As for you Marilyn… platinum blonde!”
So cool. It’s only fair that I get my, “Garance… Hmmm…. An explosive red/a Hitchcockian blonde/ a Katy Perryesqe pink, of course!”
I can see it already, so new and sublime, tying myself down to bi-monthly root touch-ups. And of course, I’d have the budget to match (“But Scott, you get it… $3,000 is nothing – this is what I think it costs, but it’s probably way more – when I get to dazzle you night and day!” “You’re right,” he’d say. “That makes total sense. Don’t you worry and we’ll just go ahead and buy our apartment in 2065!”)
So, I go to have my crazy Hollywood fantasy walking up the palace steps of the Parisian Hotel le Meurice where Christophe has his salon.
Since it was my first time, he sat me down in a little private room.
I couldn’t sit still I was so excited.
He look at me, at my hair. We talked, and talked… and talked…
And then suddenly, this is what I get:
“Garance, I hate to say it, but your color is good as is. No big change for you, I’m sorry. We’ll wake up your brown a little bit. It’ll be nice. But really, your hair is perfect. I hope you weren’t looking for anything too extreme?”
“Okay! I looooove my natural color. You’re right! Don’t you worry. I know you’ll do what’s best!” I said, lying through my teeth, as montage after dreamy cinematic montage of my new beautiful self went up in flames on the floor.
No makeover for me. I am normal. Plain Jane Garance. Pfffff. Boring.
Shit. Just shit. And this after telling everyone that they wouldn’t recognize me the next time they saw me.
In short, Christophe broke my heart. Even if it goes to show just how good he is – it’s gotta be hard to resist the hoards of women who come to him hoping to change their life color.
I ended up with the most sublime brown. But it definitely ended up, even upon really close inspection: brown.
And I thought that this was the end of the story for me.
BUT he didn’t leave me with nothing. His new line of products had just come out and he gave me some samples. He talked to me about one thing in particular, the Cleansing Mask with Lemon.
“So, it takes three hours to wash. It doesn’t foam, and it stings like hell if you get it in your eye, but try it. I promise, it’ll be worth your time.”
I love when they lay it out like that.
Yeah. Ok. I left. I put the samples in some deep dark corner of my suitcase and never gave them much thought. I wash my hair practically three times a day and I just don’t have the time to spare for something so dang inconvenient.
Plus they joined me in the middle of my world tour when I couldn’t exceed 50 pounds of baggage. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself with 10 pounds of hair products. I still had Brazil, Corsica, and Paris a second time before I was back to my own bathroom.
Yet something told me that with these products, I had to hold onto them.
So one fine day in Sao Paulo, I took a bath. I tried the mask. My eyes burned like crazy. It didn’t foam and it took me three hours to wash my hair. Following that, I applied the Regenerating Mask with rare prickly pear seed oil, rinsed, and voilà. I let my hair dry without thinking about it much, without even putting on the after-after shampoo balm.
Yeah, and then, such softness.
“Holy crap! This is crazy!!!” I shouted from my bathroom. (There were no words strong enough).
You know what is even crazier? I usually have to wash my hair every day or else it grosses me out…
But with this, I can go at least three days without shampooing my head, and it still looks great, fresh, silky, all of it.
Children, the greatest revolutions are those that start behind masks (Ok, now I’m not making sense anymore).
And my new holy grail of hair care doesn’t have to do with the ends (too easy, too 2008, who cares about the ends?!), it’s all about the scalp.
I have a new feeling that the beauty of hair stems directly from the scalp.
Well, I guess it was Christophe who had that feeling first.
But I’m the one who got the silky hair.
Translation : Tim Sullivan