Thursday, February 6, 1997
APPEARANCE:
L.A.’s beauty subculture makes one a princess for a dayAnn
Mah
Last week, following the footsteps of Joe and Josie Bruin, I
decided to have a makeover. There comes a time in every young
woman’s life when she wishes to make the transition from brunette
to blonde, long to short, straight to curly. Last Wednesday was my
time.
Though many of you readers may merely assume (possibly from my
extremely flattering Daily Bruin photograph) that I live in what is
termed as "the fast lane," let me assure you that I am actually a
simple soul who is contented with simple pleasures. Butter-spread
on my bagel, lunchtime sun on Bruin walk, dollar margaritas at
Acapulco’s …
These are all things that bring great joy into my life. And
though, in the past, some malicious souls have gone so far as to
call me a princess, I think this is an unfair assessment based
solely on my ignorance of floor-mopping, vacuuming, dish-washing
and other household chores.
Keeping these truths in mind, I would now like to relate the
very true story of my trip to a Beverly Hills hair salon. This
particular salon sits rather majestically on the corner of a
prestigious Beverly Hills street. It is a petulant pink princess
 a veritable pleasure dome of hair. Enter the double glass
doors and you will find a man or woman with a haughty coiffure
whose impossible attitude indicates their dedication toward
hair.
Jeremy** is my hairstylist. He is a small, slight man whose hair
resembles that of a late-’80s rock star. Shaggy, blonde, slightly
Scooby Doo, slightly Mick Jagger, Jeremy’s tousled, rumpled locks
are the product of hair spray, hair dye, hair gel.
Jeremy is only in his mid-20s, yet already he has a rather
haggard aura. Though this pallid look is probably the result of too
many late night tequila shots, I prefer to believe that it is the
result of spending too much time with a blow-dryer and
round-bristle-brush.
Jeremy not only cuts my hair, he also serves as my guide through
the unwieldy maze of Beverly Hills beauty culture. The owner of the
salon himself is an interesting fellow, a guru of hair, who only
dresses in white and has a long braid hanging halfway down his
back. He has a regimented hair routine which all his stylists
practice religiously, though they are only allowed to play with
each other’s hair on Tuesday after 5 p.m. However, rumor has it
that though he styles to perfection, his cuts fall short of the
mark.
The shampoo woman upstairs is an artist. Once, I tottered into
the salon suffering from the achiness and general disgruntlement of
a Maloney’s hangover. I don’t know if it was the neck massage, hot
water or herbal essence shampoo, but 10 minutes later I felt ready
to bite the dog that bit me. Last week, she raved about my new red
highlights so much that I gave her a tip. Obsequiousness counts in
some circles.
I like Jeremy because of his sweet personality, undivided
concentration, and dedication to hair, but, unfortunately, I cannot
call him the sharpest tool in the shed. We spend most of our
conversations in a clutter of mutual confusion. A quick example:
Once he told me he had eaten goat meat while he was vacationing in
Mexico. With stale wit, I replied "Oh, did it taste like chicken?"
This remark was answered only with a confused look followed by "No
… It was a little more gamey than that." But at least he cuts a
mean head of hair.
The tragedy of my hair is that I am inept with a blow-dryer and
can never produce the results that Jeremy gives me. After a hair
session I like to reward my head with a bar visit and so, one
evening, Jeremy, roommate and I all went out for a happy hour
drink. Roommate and I sipped our umbrella-bedecked margaritas and
watched in surprise as Jeremy tossed back shot after shot of
tequila. Our conversation was limited. When I attempted to broach a
favorite topic, Jane Austen, gay or not gay, I was met with the
response, "Who is Jane Austen?"
Life at my favorite salon is part of the Los Angeles subculture
of beauty. Angelenos go to these over-priced salons because the
snooty manners and haughty airs make them feel privileged, lucky,
even beautiful. Few of my friends and acquaintances will actually
admit to paying such exorbitant prices for their hair, yet I know
this is not a foreign concept to the culture which we call UCLA.
After all, visiting Bearwear is more like a trip to a suburban
mall, complete with Calvin Klein boutique.
Last week, after spending both two hours and unmentionable
amounts of money, I emerged from the salon with my hair looking …
relatively the same as before. The irony of these extravagant
salons is that they work really, really hard to produce a look
which is natural. Consequently, the result is so subtle it’s
becomes almost impossible to tell the difference between highlights
or chlorine damage.
Was it worth the price? Probably not. Will I return in six to
eight weeks? Probably so. Call me a princess if you must, but I
have an addiction to hair.
**Names have been changed to protect the identity of innocent
hair-stylists.