I thought I had him under control this time. Fashion Week Monster had been tamed. My wardrobe is made up of my favorite clothes alongside a few cool newcomers but everything felt like me and gave off total New Garance vibes.
I mean, let’s not even start on the subject of my new haircut and the millions of adorable comments you all left me. I felt their positivity for hours (okay, days) after. This has to be what Gisele feels like every second of her life, no?
Seriously though, you guys are way too nice!!!
(Kidding. Keep ’em coming as long as you’d like.)
So floating on my little cloud, I thought that right before Paris would be a great time to have a little beauty trip.
With a stupid expression like that, I should have seen the warnings.
I made an appointment at the derm, the colorist, because I was in the mood for a change, and on top of that, I thought to myself that a woman as cool and as organized as me shouldn’t been seen a second longer without first getting waxed, as I had not had time to shave during fashion week because I could only be bothered to think about one thing: being divine and fabulous.
Off I was to the derm for a little laser treatment. My skin is prone to imperfections which is called, well, I don’t really know what it’s called but – sensitive readers, please skip to the next paragraph – it’s like some of my pores get all excited and make small cysts that exist for one thing and one thing only: to get zapped by a retro-laser. Gross, yeah, ew.
Once I showed my derm the zones to attack, he seemed pretty excited himself. Bzzz, krshhhhh, zoooooon, and I left happy like person newly liberated from some evil occupants. I was gonna be prettaaaaay!
The next day, as I was passing by a mirror, I performed my new gesture of
checking if I was still Gisele checking my loose strands to make sure they were in place.
That’s when I saw them.
The little crusties. The little crusties from the laser are just as ugly as the word itself (crusty, is the word so gross because it describes something so gross?)(or the opposite?)(What came first the chicken or the… Ok) and made me look like Garance circa 15 years old. Where’s my Clearasil and let’s put on a Cure CD (yes, mesdames and messieurs, a CD, I’m not so old to have been raised with audiotapes).
Argh. Crap. So blissed out by my beauty victories, I totally forget about the side-effects of the laser treatment.
You know, who cares though? A sublime color and a sublime haircut will bring the attention upward. And there’s nothing a five inches of foundation can’t fix, right, Robert Smith? and I was still rolling from my hair triumph from the past few days.
So off I went to the colorist whose name I will not mention but who came super highly recommended to me. So with a smile, I walked in, ready to hand him my future.
I gave him my hair without even thinking about it, and only gave him one instruction: “Anything you want is fine, just nothing darker.” I even went on to show how ballsy I was by saying, “Sometime this spring, I’m gonna go platinum blonde. Yeah, I know. I’m so crazy bold aren’t I?!?”
Two hours later, as my hair was getting blown, I slowly was able to see my color in the mirror and suddenly, I thought I was going to choke. Looking right at me, there was definitely a little bit of me there, but more than that, it was definitely…
Yes. I kid you not.
Black raven hair in every direction with a few caramel touches on the ends, the least flattering thing (Hello dark circles!!! How you been?!) and the most depressing look I’ve ever had.
I wanted to cry but I had nothing in there. I picked my courage up off the floor and asked nicely if he cover up the “highlights” that were giving my hair its burnt-acid look. Then I took my sorrow downstairs with
drugs, sex, and rock ‘n roll millions of texts my army of expert friends who gave me a few directives:
“Just got have another color made!” (Translation: Burn your hair to nothingness)
“Wash it with an anti-dandruff shampoo!” (Translation: Are you implying something there? “No! It’ll take some of the color out! Wait… You thought I was saying that you had dan…”)
“Shampoo your hair with hydrogen peroxide!” (Translation: #notarealfriend)
So I weighed my options and then decided to attack the hair with some anti-dandruff shampoo. It didn’t do much. So pretty much, I decided to wait it out. My hair will grow back. Live and let live, that’s what she said.
Yeah, this one wasn’t supposed to go this way either.
So I still decided to materialize at the spa below my house, with my skin of a 15-year-old and my Robert Smith hair, close to depression and with my ego properly stuffed into the bottoms of my shoes.
And I decided to start with NOT getting my nails red, because who was I to think I could pull red nails off. Uh?
Still, there resided deep within me some spark of self-esteem and I decided to go through with the waxing. If I wasn’t going to be divine, I’d at least feel super neat.
I went to the back room, got half-naked for the esthetician who went about her work when suddenly I remember….
[Interlude : New York Nail Spa
Okay, so in New York Nail Spas, a lot of the time the estheticians don’t speak very good English. that said, they still speak their native language really well and don’t hesitate to speak it in front of you so you don’t understand a word they’re saying. And I don’t know why but they didn’t like my hair at all and expressed it to me with GRIMACES, yes GRIMACES, when I answered their question, “Cut your hair?” Yeah okay, everyone has their own tastes, I suppose, but still, did they have to go speaking in their own language and laughing at me? I stopped trying to understand what they were saying and decided to not jump to conclusions about what they were saying but c’mon now]
(Not the waffle here folks… Ego.)
… that my legs don’t really do well with waxing.
One of the very good reasons that I shave is that my sensitive skin gets all rashy when they put the hot wax on.
Stuck on the table, I asked the esthetician (who didn’t understand a single word I was saying) to be SUPER careful. She changed the wax three times. I tried to make myself believe everything was going just fine.
I don’t need to paint you a picture here. There I was, 45 minutes later, hairless from top to bottom, but with skin about as attractive as Freddy from A Nightmare on Elm Street (sorry for all the 90s references, you kids out there, someone has to load you up on the basic landmarks of our fine culture, and today, that someone is me.)
So I can’t even use my legs to distract from my head during fashion week. I thought I had defeated once and for all the Fashion Week Monster, but given the evidence….
(The epilogue, okay?)
Okay. So a few days and 243 anti-dandruff shampoos later, you could say my color has softened some. Now I’m more Kris Jenner, believe it or not, which is definitely an improvement. I can live with my black hair until it grows back. My “acne” ended up healing (I send a prayer to you, oh magic organ of the epidermis). I promise to tell you about my new derm.
As for my legs, I decided that the waxanation wasn’t as visible after a few days and I could wear skirts if I wanted to, who cares? (Now, the ingrown hairs are starting to stick their little heads out)(Oh the joys of womanhood).
But more than anything, it’s useless to get too caught up in the drama. It’ll grow back. It’ll heal up. It all changes. And it all gives you a story to tell!
(That’s what I think on the good days. The bad days? I just cry a little ;)
Translation : Tim Sullivan