hate + love: a waitress's tale

PART I: HATE

"Ma'am? Excuse me. Uh, ma'am?"

Surely the mid- to late-thirtysomethings at Table 52 aren't beckoning ME. I look over my shoulder - perhaps there's an older woman standing behind me with whom they'd like to speak? The guy with salt-n-pepper hair gives a little wave. Oh. They DID mean me.

"Um, yeah?" I say.

"Is it okay if we write on this menu?"

No! I think, It is clearly NOT okay if you write on the menu. Do you see little check marks next to each tapas item? Did I supply you with a pen and pencil? Would you walk into No. 9 Park or even the Butcher Shop and start scribbling all over their menu? What kind of animal are you?

"Sure," I say instead, since he has already started sullying it up with red ink. "Of course. Go right ahead."

I head to the service bar to collect their mojitos.

"Dude, Table 52 called me ma'am," I lament to the barback.

"They didn't mean it, Kitty. They didn't mean it," he consoles me.

"I don't care. I now hate them."

PART II: LOVE

"Here are your mojitos," I say, careful to conceal my contempt as I hand them their drinks. "Did you have any questions? Are you ready to order?"

"Hey," the salt-n-pepper guy says, "You look just like that woman in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Know who I'm talking about?" he says. His companions, two men with accents and a pretty brunette woman, nod and murmur "Yes...she does...mmm-hmmm."

"You mean the blonde chick?" I say. "Scarlett Johannson?"

"Yes! Scarlett Johannson," he says.

"That's a pretty hefty compliment," I say, "She's pretty hot. She's also one of my favorite actresses."

"Yup, you look just like her," he says. Then, to his friends: "You know, she's the most beautiful woman in the world according to this magazine I just read." They nod and murmur "Yes...Scarlett Johannson is the most beautiful woman in the world and our waitress looks exactly like her...mmm-hmmm."

And just like that I love them.

BLONDE DISPATCHES: Phantom Blonde

One thing I’ve noticed is that when women want to really “shred” you, they attack your being blonde first.

I recently got a nasty-gram from a woman who got in a dither about one of my columns. She, along with a diatribe about my lack of intelligence and education, had to throw in something about my “bleached blonde tresses” in the first three sentences.

“Bleach blonde” apparently is supposed to be an insult among women. As if coloring one’s hair blonde is somehow shameful. I’ve never heard anyone accuse a brunette of being a “brunette-out-of-the-bottle bitch” or a “fake red-head”. Nope. The slam is always anti-blonde.

I’ve also had my share of men asking if I’m really blonde. And we all know what THAT’S about. (Oh please…I wish men would grow up!)

I went brunette once. Once. It didn’t look good or natural. And I learned that my eyebrows are actually MUCH lighter than they appeared against my blondeness.

I’m not a “bleached blonde.” I like to think of it as “enhanced” blonde. I’m naturally blonde, although I’m darker than I used to be.

Honestly, Kitty, I’m tired of being portrayed as stupid (I’m not. I have a M.A. in Journalism and I teach college part-time). I’m tired of being portrayed as blonde-therefore-slut. And I’m damned tired of blonde jokes.

I think all the vitriol is lobbed at us because, secretly, being blonde equates with some kind of mystery and power that those with low self-esteem just can’t handle.

Phantom Blonde is a writer based in Central Texas. Check out her ruminations on life and blondeness at phantomblonde.blogspot.com.

Marilyn by LUSH Product review: Part I

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I'm testing Marilyn by LUSH this month for it's blondaliciousness. Here's what the website has to say about the stuff:

Marilyn Hair Treatment Hair Moisturizer
Moisturizing treatment to soften and brighten blonde hair

Chamomile, lemon and saffron brighten blonde hair. Use it regularly and get fairer hair. Linseed mucilage results in softer tresses and fresh, organic lemon juice adds a ton of shine. If you always wanted to be a "natural" blonde, here's how to go about it.

7.9 oz costs $18.55.

You can literally smell the LUSH shop before you see it as you walk down Newbury Street. Inside the store, the air is thickly perfumed by the candy flavored products that line the shelves. The LUSH sales-staff tend to be bubbly and outgoing and usually intent on working a sales pitch for at least one or two "featured" products as they say hello/check you out. I tend to find the entire experience of shopping there overwhelming, and try to duck in and out as quickly as possible to avoid olfactory overload. The products are worth every venture, which is why I keep coming shopping there, and when I discovered the Marilyn, I felt intrigued by its promise.

The sales girl who checked me out extolled the virtues of the product, which surprised me because she was a dark brunette. She gave me a quick run-down of how to use the stuff, instructing me to:

• Leave it in my hair for at least 20 minutes, preferably longer.
• Try slathering it on and sleeping with it in, to maximize effectiveness, or
• To apply it then blow-dry the hair, thereby activating the color-enhancing properties even more.

The notes on the website further instructed me to use a ton of the product per use -- "literally soaking the hair". They recommend that women with shorter cuts use 1/4 to 1/2 of the tub each use, and women with longer hair use 1/2 - an entire tub. And the stuff ain't cheap; I so I opt to use a quarter container.

The Marilyn has a gloopy consistency and smells like honey, lavender, chamomile, and, is also vaguely reminiscent of paste -- in a good way. I slather it on, throw a shower cap on my head, and tuck into bed. Nighty-night!

When I wake up in the morning and washed it Marilyn out, my hair feels soft, silky, and totally conditioned. I style it as usual (wrap it in rollers and let it dry for like a zillion years) and at the end of the entire, long process, my hair is bouncy, curly, and super vibrant. I can't say for sure that I think my hair looks any blonder, but the texture is luscious.

Perhaps the blonde-enhancing aspect of the cream is an aggregate thing? Like, maybe if I use it more frequently, it will be more effective? I will report back more once I've tried it again.

Stay tuned for Part II, where I test out the blow-dry method and determine, for once and for all, if the Marilyn makes it into the cadre of expensive products upon which I utterly depend.

vow of silence saturday: does she...or doesn't she?

blonde wisdom: Meryl Streep

I didn't have any confidence in my beauty when I was young. I felt like a character actress, and I still do.
- Meryl Streep














I think the most liberating thing I did early on was to free myself from any concern with my looks as they pertained to my work.
- Meryl Streep























Instant gratification is not soon enough.
- Meryl Streep

radiant beauty

Misty and I are talking shop over plate of sliced meats at the Butcher Shop.

She has just an hour to kill before she heads next door to attend the cocktail demonstration David Wondrich and John Gertsen are giving next door at Stir. We've worked our way thru glass #1.5 of wine and are debating whether there's time to order any percentage more when our friend K., Misty's date for the evening walks in...

...and right past us to say hello to David and John as they chat over a plate of offal at a table a few feet away.

"Hmm...?" Misty says. "Guess he didn't see us."
"Guess not," I shrug. The Butcher Shop is small and he'll see us eventually; we return to our gossip and jamon.

When K. finally comes over to say hello, he apologizes wholeheartedly: "Ladies, I didn't see you when I walked in! It's just that John is glowing so radiantly this evening! His radiant light was the only thing I saw when I walked in the door!" We turn to John, who is deeply engrossed in his conversation with Mr. Wondrich. "Perhaps it's his vest?" K. offers.

We chat for a moment before K. excuses himself: "These gentleman bought me this glass of wine, ladies, so I suppose I should go and join them. Regrettably; John may be glowing exceptionally this evening, but you ladies are of greater substance."

We giggle as he walks away, and I can't help but wonder: when was the last time a man listed my substantial nature as the most compelling reason to stay and chat? Usually it's, "You girls look lovely this evening, as ever" or "I hate to leave such pretty ladies, but I must go join these fellows", regardless of how lovely or unlovely I may actually look on a given day. Having substance listed as the reason a friend regrets to leave my table? Well, it took me a little by surprise.

But I found it rather refreshing.

toro blondes

I worked tonight at Toro. We were super busy. The place was packed, four deep at the bar from 8 p.m. to 11. Only at the end of the night did I have time to look up and survey the scene around me. When I finally did, I realized: the place was packed with beautiful women, a reasonable percentage of which were light, almost platinum blondes. Three in particular caught my eye, all levels 10 at least, with very minimal highlighting. All of whom struck me as artificial, contrived.

"Wow," I said to my colleague Sarah. "Those women are so blonde." I thought back to a time when I just filled in at Toro, two summers ago in 2006 when I picked up shifts to help out my friend, the general manager. I counted the blondes then, tallying their color, viewing the light blondes with a competitive eye. I thought about the women in the restaurant now, about the sheer volume of processing that goes into an entire head of 12-14-inch hair that looks like that. It cost her thousands of dollars to look that way, I thought. And still, those roots.

"I'm not that blonde, am I?" I asked Sarah.

"No, no you're not," Sarah said. Then she looked like she felt bad, as though she was afraid she's hurt my feelings. Apologetically she offered, "You could be that blonde, with some highlights. Next time you go in, just ask for more highlights."

"No, it's cool," I said. "I don't want to be that blonde anymore. I used to be that blonde and I loved it. But not anymore. That's not who I want to be."

wordless wednesday...

Madonna, maybe, but Lindsay Lohan?

Just last night at Toro I was explaining the New York magazine-Lindsay Lohan situation to my friend/Toro wine director Courtney. She, too, was appalled at NY Mag's horrible choice of a subject for the naked-Marilyn photo-shoot-remake.

"I mean, it would be one thing if they chose Madonna for a shoot like that. But Lindsay Lohan? Please!" Courtney said. I nodded emphatically. We both agreed: only Madonna would be iconic enough to stand in at such a photographic event.

And then just today I came across this article on BBC News. Guess we aren't the only ones who felt that way...

NY Magazine, you should be ashamed...

...for trying to pass off a two-bit celebrity like Lindsay Lohan as Marilyn Monroe.

It just offends me, for the following reasons:

1. Lindsay Lohan is about as far a cry as you can come from the Grand Dame of blonde bombshells. She is famous for starring in lame remakes like The Parent Trap and Herbie: Fully Loaded, being busted for fabulously messy DUI's, and spending more time in rehab than most bonafide adult alcoholics. Marilyn is famous for being indescribably sensual, a comedic genius, and embodying a je ne sais quoi that is leaps and bounds beyond anything Ms. Lohan represents.

2. Lohan does not even make a good blonde. She's a much better redhead or sultry brunette. As a blonde? She looks washed out and weird. A hot Ann Margaret look-alike maybe, but Marilyn? Please.

3. The Lohan shoot parodies Monroe's final photo-shoot before her tragic, untimely death at age 36. Show some respect, NY Magazine. I get that you needed to feature someone impossibly young here, so the 21-years-old thing doesn't bother me nearly as much as your choice of such a mediocre subject. At the very least you could have used a blonde worth her artistic salt for such a shoot, like actress Scarlett Johanssen. Instead, you settled for a mediocre actress who hasn't done a single interesting film in her adult life (Mean Girls aside, for it was essential a teen movie), famous simply for being famous.

I repeat, you should be ashamed, NY Magazine. This is false blonde prophecy.

dressing for the wedding

Tonight, one of my closest girlfriends is getting married. It is a black tie affair. It is being held at the Taj. It will undoubtedly be one of the fanciest events I've ever attended. And I am beside myself with excitement.

But who knew gala affairs required so much preparation? Between choosing the perfect dress, getting nails and hair done, figuring out shoes, make-up, jewelry, a purse, and a shawl I feel like I've been mentally preparing for this night for months. I can't begin to imagine what it must have been like to plan the event from soup to nuts! It must have been like taking on a second job. I'm so glad the bride & groom have a nice long honey-moon awaiting them, starting tomorrow morning.

When I first began conceptualizing an outfit for the evening I wanted to go for something different: a fun, lively, evening gown with lots of sequins and shiny stuff on it in some bright, exciting hue, like mauve or cerulean. I ended up with the exact opposite: I walked out of the department store 20 minutes after I walked into it, the proud new owner of a simple, plain, floor-length black gown made of a totally pedestrian fabric, with thick straps and a simple neckline. It was the first dress I tried on and the least expensive dress in the entire evening department. But the fit? It was simply perfect. I learned a very important fashion lesson that evening -- sometimes going with what you know isn't being boring. Sometimes it's simply the only option. There's a reason I'm always drawn to the little black dress -- because it always looks perfect. And if that's the case, well, why fight it?

But the real fashion epiphany came when I decided upon my main accessory for the evening: my hair. It's only fitting, n'est-ce pas? Hair has been such a focus of my thoughts and scholarship the past few years,that it only makes sense that I should make hair the centerpiece of the outfit. I will visit my dear Jason to make this a reality, of course. But since he doesn't do up-do's, my options are limited.

I was stumped about what to request for styling at first, and thought a boring blow out would be my only option. Then, while setting my water glass down on my somewhat disconcerting Marilyn Monroe coasters the other night, it hit me: deep side part, big, soft curling-iron curls, et voila! Simple elegant, old-school glamour, much in the fashion of the Grande Dame of Bombshell Blondes.







I'm leaving for my hair appointment in a few minutes, and can't wait to see what Jason does. I hope it all comes together -- I'm cutting it pretty close with a 3:45 hair appointment.

Then again, if the look isn't perfect, who cares? This isn't my day, it's the brides. My simple goal is to be as pleasing an addition to the backdrop of her photos as possible. Thanks to Spanx, Jason's deft hair stylings, a killer dress, and $100 worth of make-up purchased impulsively at the Chanel counter, think I can make it happen.

But, goddamn! Being fancy is a lot of work.

manorexia

I spent the better part of Wednesday looking at images of very thin models wearing very expensive clothes.

I wasn't just messing around, I was working -- it was for a media placement for one of my clients, the Achilles Project, who open the doors to their innovative boutique/restaurant on Monday. There was something unusual about these skinny models, however: they were all boys.

As I paged through look-books from McQ by Alexander McQueen and Shipley & Halmos, I couldn't help but notice: all the male models looked as thin, frail, and anorexic as their female counterparts. I was shocked.

I do recall the heroine-chic thing of the mid-1990s, but the models from these look books? They evoked something different. Just as the high-waisted, wide-leg jeans I bought last month are similar but not-at-all like my mom's bell-bottoms from the 70's, these skinny guys seemed to foretell a new era of thin. It's bad enough that we don't let the women eat, I thought. Are we now taking food away from the men, too?

Intrigued, I googled "anorexic male models" and turned up this article from last Thursday's New York Times. Says writer Guy Trebay: "Far from inspiring a spate of industry breast-beating, as occurred after the international news media got hold of the deaths of two young female models who died from eating disorders, the trend favoring very skinny male models has been accepted as a matter or course."


Huh. Really? Then I began to wonder: How will men respond to this new trend?

Are food issues going to become de rigeur for both genders now?

Will men finally begin to understand what it's like to have the media plucking away at their self-esteem all the time?

Will we see an increase across the board in manorexia?

It levels the playing field in a way, I guess, to have food issues plaguing everyone, not just women. But when I dream about gender equality, meritocratic food issues aren't exactly what I have in mind.

blonde wisdom: Marlene Dietrich

Darling, the legs aren't so beautiful, I just know what to do with them.
- Marlene Dietrich









Glamour is what I sell, it's my stock in trade.
- Marlene Dietrich















I am not a myth.
- Marlene Dietrich

wisdom of the traveling pants

Bridget could feel lots of eyes on her, but she didn't dwell on it. She was used to people looking at her. She knew that her hair was unusual. It was long and straight and the color of a peeled banana. People always made a big deal about her hair. Also she was tall and her features were regular -- her nose straight, all the things in the right places. The combination of qualities made people mistake her for beautiful.

She wasn't beautiful...There was no particular poetry or grace in her face. She knew that, and she knew that other people probably realized that too, once they got over her hair.

-- The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares

Sometimes I feel like dying my hair blonde is this delightful trick that I've been pulling to get people to pay more attention to me for the past several years. Eventually this project will be over, and I'll be faced with a decision: do I stay blonde?

I always think of the above passage when my mind starts to flutter there, over to that question.

the blonde of the week: Queen Elizabeth I of England

The Virgin Queen. Gloriana. The Faerie Queen. Good Queen Bess. These were nicknames for Queen Elizabeth I of England, one of England's most beloved royals and a legend in her own time. Queen Elizabeth was also a blonde.

Or was she?

"Attentive schoolgirls may remember being told that Queen Elizabeth I had auburn hair," writes Joanna Pittman in ON BLONDES. Indeed, early portraits of the Queen such as this one, thought to have been painted by Elizabethan female court painter, Levina Teerling when Elizabeth was thirteen, show her as a bona fide redhead.

So...what happened? Queen Elizabeth was a brilliant self-promoter, that's what. Right around the time England defeated the Spanish armada, thus forever cementing her association with one of the greatest victories in British history, Queen Elizabeth made the transition into blonde. At the time she was 55-years old, her real hair already grey and thinning. But she will be remembered for time immortal, thanks to her large, trusty collection of wigs, as an ageless, wrinkle-free blonde.

Elizabeth's reign was recognized by her public as one of "exceptional prudence and felicity", but it was the Armada defeat of 1588 that sealed the deal for Queen Bess. According to Pittman, "it provided the final impetus for the creation of a Queen Elizabeth cult."

Why did Elizabeth choose blonde? Because in 16th century England the color held potent, powerful symbolism. In addition to being a key component of the Elizabethan ideal of femininity, it also conferred a non-negligible association between the Queen and all things holy. As you may recall, the Queen never married: she pitted suitors against one another throughout her lifetime in the end rebuffing them all. At age fifty-one she refused the hand of her final suitor (the French Duke of Anjou, a man half her age) and her foreign policy ministers finally took the hint: the Queen would never marry.

Thereafter Queen Eliz became immortalized as "the Virgin Queen" and subsequently deified for her virtuous piety. Scared images of Christ, the saints, and the Virgin Mary had recently been "removed from England's churches and rejected as idolatry", leaving ample room for a new brand of virgin-worship: the cult of Queen Elizabeth.

Throughout her life Queen Elizabeth keep close tabs on artistic representations of her image throughout the kingdom. It is rumored that she had her public relations officer issue a "pattern book by which officially sanctioned artists would be able to produce 'correct' images ." In 1596, towards the end of her life, she had "unseemly portraits sought out by government officers" and turned into fuel for the fire.

In official portraits her likeness marched on: aloof, otherworldly, and in increasingly lighter shades of blonde. They were produced with perhaps even greater vigor after her death. Writes Pittman:

"She was a golden ruler of a golden age, and her blonde hair was part of this divine unreality."

puffy coat

Each winter, when the temperature first dips below 30 degrees here in Boston and the air begins to smart with chill, I pull my puffy coat out of the closet.

The puffy is a welcome addition to my wardrobe. It is long, hits mid-calf on my legs, and is made of down, so it's very, very warm. It has a real-fur trimmed hood that looks pleasantly Eskimo when I wear it up. In addition to being warm, my coat is also surprisingly light and can squish up into an impossibly small ball. This makes it good for traveling.

It's like walking around in a sleeping bag all day long.

My puffy coat is every-so slightly too big for me (despite the fact that I bought it in the littlest size they had, extra small), and it's not exactly flattering to my mid-section. But the puffy miraculously guards against ALL elements, enabling me to wear short skirts with boots and questionably light sweaters, even when the snow drifts are high. It's like a suit of warm armor and for that reason I love it, am indebted to it, even.

Some time around mid-January I begin to get a little sick of my puffy coat. It no longer seems like a funny, practical addition to my wardrobe when I have to wear it every single day. I have other coats, sure, but none protect from ALL the elements the way this one does, with it's amorphous hood and water-proof exterior. It's an umbrella and a coat in one. It melts snow in it's tracks. So I continue to wear it, almost every single day...even though I now kind of hate my puffy coat.

And inevitably, somewhere around early-February, I begin to loathe my puffy coat. It start to feel way too hot half the time, and totally claustrophobic. I glimpse my reflection in windows and glass doors as I pass by on my way to work and I see myself as this tubby, sexless creature, schlepping along through dreary winter days. Sure, I'm warm and dry, but I definitely don't look hip or fasionable or pretty. I stomp along to my destination, either the office or Toro, and throw my puffy coay in a corner as far away from me possible, and refuse to look at it again until it's time to go back outside.

My puffy coat has become my prison.

I suppose that's what I get for living in Boston in winter. But still. How can a garment can be so good and soooo bad, all in the span of one long, dreary season?

the blondest spot

Last week I saw Jason for highlights. Instead of posting about the usually euphoric experience of becoming blonder after enduring three and a half weeks of roots, I posted about Dan who died. But today, while applying mascara I realized: there is an entire chunk of my hair that is blonder than blonde:

See it? Right there in the front?

Usually Jason does a toner rinse for me, but last Wednesday, he decided to bring the whole of my head up a notch. "How blonde do you want to be, Kitty?" he asked.

"What do you think?" I said. The guantlet was thrown.

10 minutes later, Jason was rushing me from the chair to the shampoo bowl: "It's turning grey, Kitty, go! Over to the shampoo bowl! NOW!" I threw the January issue of Shape on the floor and ran. It could rest there in a pile of hair for now. Who really cares what my "happy weight" is, anyway?

Fortunately, the almost grey spot stopped at blonde. But if you look closely, you'll see: it's a little blonde-grey. Here it is again:


The moral of the story: ladies, beware. Blonde hair = bleach + hues of purple & blue to off-set brassiness & orange. In short, when you really go for it with peroxide, grey is just minutes away.

Proceed with caution.

marilyn monroe as a thing

I decided recently that Marilyn Monroe is one of my all-time favorite blondes.

I know, I know. It seems like a no-brainer. She scored the #9 spot on Forbes' Top Earning Dead Celebrities List in 2007, after all--anyone that lucrative clearly strikes the fancy of many. (She's the only woman on there, too.) But the more I learn about Marilyn, her tragic childhood, her difficult life in the spotlight, and her sad death by her own hand, the more I feel fascinated by her.

In light of this fascination, I decided, on a whim, to purchase these coasters with her image on them from Posh on Tremont Street a few weeks ago. The Mathematician and I were killing time waiting for a table at Aquitaine one Sunday, so we wandered in to look around. Posh is one of those stores that sells expensive nothing: novelties, silly cards, board games with names like "Dog-opoly". "Oooh, they have coasters with Marilyn on them!!!" I exclaimed when I saw the display. "Let's get them!" I guess you could say I got caught up in the moment. $40 and 20 minutes later, there I was eating brunch at Aquitaine, happy as a clam with two boxes full of Marilyn Monroe coasters be my side.

The thing is, part of the reason I bought the coasters because we needed them. I grew up in a coaster house, and have since been trained to use one under all beverages glasses (except those with stems, like wine or martini glasses.) And since I bought them, I've used my Marilyn coasters every day. But last night, while getting up to grab something from the kitchen, I put my glass down on Marilyn's face and it made me feel sad: there was Marilyn's enigmatic smile staring up at me. And there was my pint glass full of l'eau, on top of it. Water swished back and forth in the bottom of the clear glass as the liquid settled; her face swayed back and forth, too, suspended and submarine.

It made me feel sad to commodify Marilyn so because I believe her status as a living, breathing commodity is what drove her nuts. Feeling less a person than a thing, contrived and controlled by other people all the time--it must have been terrible. And I think it's a feeling to which many women can relate. Or at least, I can.

I love those coasters, but now they kind of make me sad.

So, where am I going to put my drinks?

a little blonde before & after

I always love to compare, don't you?

Brigitte brunette...

Brigitte blonde...


We women look so different after hair and make-up, don't we?

Bon weekend!!!

the sadness of roots

I woke up today thinking about my roots, and I realized--they make me feel kinda sad. Here's the pattern I have identified over the course of my blonde-hair-self-image research:

Book hair appointment, Jason abolishes my roots. I walk out of salon feeling beautiful, rejuvenated, revived. People comment on how pretty I look. Traffic stops, I feel movie-star glam.

A few days later I wash my hair (I only need to do this twice a week since my hair is so dry & my skin is the opposite of oily), blow dry it myself for the first time. Doesn't ever look quite as good as it did when Jason did it, but still falls into place beautifully--and bright blonde.

About a week later: Hair doesn't look quite as wonderful as it did right when I left the salon, but still lookin' good. Can see the first hint of roots...oh no you can't...oh yes you can...who cares? Jason is so good, they look natural when they grow in.

About three weeks after first appointment: blonde highlights start to look more yellow. Hair starts to seem less healthy, drier, no matter how much I condition .

Four weeks later: I wake up one day and discover that suddenly overnight my roots have become noticeable. My hair looks kinda dirty, despite the fact that I just washed it yesterday. I feel depressed.

*sigh* It certainly is an addictive habit.