The Legs Are the Last to Go

by Diahann Carroll

  I did not stay at Suzanne and her husband’s house. Even a trouper can only take so much activity when she’s jet-lagged. Besides, the children loved visiting me at my nearby hotel. One day they came to pick me up, all looking absolutely divine. My granddaughter was in a kilt with a little black velvet jacket. My grandson was in a sports jacket and tie. We were going to the ballet.

  “These children have been entirely dressed by Diahann Carroll,” Suzanne said playfully.

  A woman nearby was impressed by how adorable they looked.

  “Are those your grandchildren?” she asked.

  “Yes, and I’m in charge of wardrobe,” I said.

  It was a wonderful holiday. I can’t remember a time since those children were born that our visits haven’t been wonderful. And when it was time for me to fly home, they didn’t want me to go. I hugged Suzanne good-bye, and she told me she loved me.

  Are there any words a mother wants to hear more than those?

  I don’t think so. My mother must be very happy for us.

  These days, I acknowledge the cost of my successes. Suzanne and I are finally at a place of love and laughter…and the place is often on the floor playing with her children.

  I still remember the day I was at a playground with my granddaughter, who I think of as Miss Bossy. She wanted to go down a slide.

  “Nana, come here,” she said.

  “Okay, darling, here I am,” I said as I stood beside her.

  “No, not there, Nana, up here with me!”

  “It’s okay, honey,” I said. “I’ll just stand here and help you down.”

  “No, Nana, you have to slide down with me!”

  I didn’t want to do it. The old bones are not what they once were.

  But she was not taking no for an answer. So in a crowded playground, I found myself climbing up a ladder and sitting next to my tiny granddaughter, then wrapping my arm around her and pushing off.

  “Whee!” we said as we slid down. She thought this was the funniest thing she had ever done. We were both laughing hysterically. And while we were doing so, a smiling woman I didn’t know approached us.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “She doesn’t even know you’re Diahann Carroll!”

  “I can’t even begin to tell you,” I replied. “It’s magnificent.”

  Diahann Carroll, 22nd Annual Publicists Guild Awards, Beverly Hills, March 22, 1985. (Photograph by Ron Galella/WireImage)

  SEVEN

  What Mirror, Where?

  IT WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE MY PLASTIC SURGERY AND I was very nervous. I paced around my apartment, frustrated that I couldn’t have a drink to calm down, and didn’t even want to take a sleeping pill. I wanted to go into my surgery as healthy as I could be. I had been eating very carefully and exercising rigorously in the months before the procedure in order to have my body in its best fighting shape.

  I’m used to having my face scrutinized and fussed over. But the idea of going under the knife was very frightening to me. And you hear of occasional botched procedures, and of course you can’t help but worry. Can you imagine a more vacuous reason for a medical emergency? Please! Is plastic surgery really worth the risk and the immense expense? Besides, why not respect every wrinkle on your face? Isn’t that the most positive way to greet the aging process, rather than taking desperate measures to reverse it? Yes, I paid for my wrinkles by living through everything I have lived through in my life. But that doesn’t mean I want to look at them in the mirror.

  I know this sounds like rampant vanity and artificiality. Well, what can I say?

  I’m a performer who still really enjoys make-believe. I remember being in a dressing room on the set of Grey’s Anatomy a couple years ago with the little daughter of one of the actresses. She must have been four or five years old, and she was fascinated by my false eyelashes. Clearly they were not something her mother appreciated. But I couldn’t help myself. “Would you like to try them on?” I asked the little girl.

  She did, and was smitten. Her mother didn’t look convinced.

  But why not give them a try? I’m for whatever makes you happy.

  High heels, makeup, sable coats, and beautiful jewelry. That’s my platform.

  The other day a woman came up to me at a party and told me she still remembered my entrance in No Strings. I told her how wonderful it was to hear that.

  “You were carrying the most beautiful handbag I’d ever seen,” she said, gushing.

  She didn’t remember my entrance. But she will never forget my handbag.

  And Harry Belafonte will never forget coming over on one of my at-home maintenance days in the early 1960s. I had warned him in advance that I would not be a pretty sight, but he really needed to speak to me about a recording he was working on. I had refused to run out of the house at a moment’s notice for the meeting.

  “I can’t jump in the shower and be ready in twenty minutes, Harry,” I told him. “I’m just not one of those people.”

  So he came over, and when I opened my door, he nearly had a heart attack. I had avocado in my hair and maybe mayonnaise as well, and egg white all over my face. Delicious. And I was also wearing a rubber suit to take the excess water out of my body. On my feet were clown-size terry-cloth slippers to absorb all the perspiration. So one of the most beautiful men in the world, a man whom every woman desired, with his beautiful face and broad shoulders and slim hips, was looking at me in this awful state, and if there had been any misguided feelings of attraction between us, they were instantly gone.

  “Oh my God,” he said as he stumbled back at the sight of me. “I can’t believe you actually let me come by here to see you like this. You have no interest in me at all!”

  That was the last time I allowed anyone to see me at home in this condition. In fact, for years, when I was doing my big shows on the road, I would not allow room service to deliver my breakfast. It had to be brought in by someone I employed, someone I trusted.

  Makeup? Don’t bother telling me you want to see me without it. The last time friends did that, I listened to them, and appeared without anything on my face. They asked, “Are you okay, Diahann? You don’t look well.” Like I’ve said before, I don’t know who I am until I put on my makeup. But give me a little time and I’m good to go!

  I once read somewhere—some philosopher said this—that human identity is nothing but a series of masks. You take one away and there’s another mask below it. I totally relate to that idea. At the core of me is a woman who revels in artifice. Artifice isn’t just fun: it’s my “architecture.” So when friends tell me they want to see me with my makeup off, I figure they really don’t know me that well. I mean, I was raised by a mother who put me in Shirley Temple curls! Why should I accept what I’m given when I can have it made to look like anything I want?

  So if there’s a medical procedure to take some wrinkles away and bring everything up, sign me on! Some people just don’t have fun unless they’re looking their best. And I’m one of them. To me, owning who you are means asking yourself “What do I have to do today to make myself happy?” Yet there’s still such shame around plastic surgery. I know people who finish one procedure and say, “Phew! That’s over!” But I know that in a year they’ll go back for more, and won’t admit it. We know who we are. We’re the ones wearing big sunglasses in restaurants.

  I guess I’m lucky it took until my late sixties for me to break down and agree that it was time to address the situation. It started when I was aghast seeing a picture of myself on the cover of a magazine. My press agent told me I was crazy.

  “You look wonderful,” he told me.

  “If you can’t see I need plastic surgery, you’re fired,” I replied.

  I consulted with a famous surgeon in New York, who is so private that he has a special side door for patients who don’t want to run into anyone else in the waiting area. I told him my face needed a little help, that things were falling down and we had to get them up again. He showed me some photos and then we
decided it would be better for me to get the work done in Los Angeles, where I’d be close to home. So I went to visit a surgeon not far from where I live who came highly recommended. He felt good about my prospects and fine with my preference for a gentle job. I didn’t feel I wanted him to do anything at all near my eyes; it just worried me too much and I didn’t want that pulled-up look. He persuaded me to trust him and said that I’d be very satisfied with the results.

  “And because you’re doing this now,” he said, “you should be able to wait years before doing anything again. You’re the perfect patient.”

  This surgeon was very serious and had a stellar reputation. The people I knew who had had work done by him told me that the only thing I was going to dislike was that I’d end up wishing I’d been pulled a little tighter. But I didn’t want that. I don’t need to look as smooth as a plum. I don’t need automaton eyes that are in a permanent look of surprise. I can live with a wrinkle or two. Human works for me.

  So I went in for the procedure and don’t remember a thing except that when I woke up, I was not in any pain, and I stayed right there in a room near the office for a few days, healing in a spalike environment, a very nice option I was offered. When the bandages came off after a few days, I was still puffy. But then, a week later, I began to look more like myself. And I thought, “Isn’t this nice? I don’t look like I’ve been yanked like a mannequin. I just look like a better and more rested version of myself.” People noticed when I started going out and about. They’d tell me, “You look wonderful.”

  Not long after that, I was the oldest guest on an Oprah Winfrey Show about “Aging Brilliantly.” Nora Ephron was on the show, too. Her baleful, funny book about aging as a woman, I Feel Bad About My Neck, was hitting the bestseller list that season. She was forthright and funny about the havoc that aging has wreaked on her self-image. “Do you know what you get as a present for your sixty-second birthday?” she asked. “A mustache!…Which is why we have waxing, darling!” At some point, Oprah looked at me and asked, “Is this what seventy-one looks like?” I told her it was. And the audience broke into spontaneous and thunderous applause.

  I should have added, “But it’s with a little help from my plastic surgeon” right away. But later in the show, I did find myself yelling, “I believe in plastic surgery! I want the world to know! Oh God, yes! Absolutely, I would not be without it!”

  Okay, maybe I was a little too zealous. But I’ve seen how getting older torments my friends and colleagues. And in my business, there’s only one response to an actress who turns forty. Don’t! The aging process is always harder for women than for men. I’ve heard people say that getting older is beautiful. I think it is, but inside, not out. Women are not happy about aging. I look into the eyes of some of my friends and I see worry and sadness because they don’t know whether to give up or fight. It’s hard to live in a society so hung up on age. Even for the most beautiful women, things fall apart. I sympathize and I commiserate. But I also like making suggestions that will help.

  I let it slip that I’ve had plastic surgery if I know it’ll open the door for a woman who would be happier with it than without it. I push acupuncture and all kinds of facials and spa treatments, too. And there’s nothing I love more than taking someone in need along for a little maintenance outing. I have gone with friends for all kinds of treatments with such peculiar-sounding names that I don’t always understand what they are. The other day I took a neighbor I adore to get our faces ironed.

  Hey, if I can do it for my hair, why not my face?

  Hair. It isn’t only on our heads. It’s on our minds, constantly.

  I’m sure there are people who think the nicest hair is the most natural hair. I’m not one of them. I have been a friend of the press-and-curl ever since my Shirley Temple–curl days. And blond is in these days, no matter what your ethnicity. There’s one hair salon in Beverly Hills where black women come out with hair as straight and blond as Donatella Versace’s. What really amazes me is that there are plenty of men out there who believe it’s natural, bless them. A couple years ago, I was fortunate enough to be invited to a luncheon for an influential, successful group of black women in Hollywood. We were twenty-five of the most successful black women in show business, young and old, many of us young stars, and it was just so inspiring to be part of the group, all of us doing so well. The outfits were wonderful, and all were clearly as carefully considered as they’d be for a red-carpet event. When you are in show business, you can never forget that you are a product, and you must always be aware of your packaging. Anyway, I have to say, superficial as it sounds, I was fascinated by the hair I was seeing at this luncheon. So many of these young stars were wearing long blond hair and obviously enjoying tossing it around with the insouciance of cheerleaders. There was not the least bit of self-consciousness in the room. Happily, I felt right at home among them. In fact, I do believe I was one of the forerunners of black women lightening their hair. I learned from my stylist that lightening your hair—as long as it’s complimentary to your skin tone—can take years off your appearance.

  It’s no news flash. Hair is a big deal, especially for blacks. And I’ve done it all, from hair to eternity. As a professional performer, nobody knows better that I do that time is money and so is hair. In fact, my hair once cost the movie Hurry Sundown a very handsome sum.

  It was 1966, and the great Otto Preminger was once again my director.

  When I heard the filming would be in humid New Orleans, and that much of it would be shot on location, I knew the weather would be troublesome for everyone, particularly the black actors, when it came to hair. So I made an appointment with Mr. Preminger in his New York office. It was on Fifth Avenue, right across the street from the Plaza, where I was living with my daughter while doing my show there.

  His office was huge and imposing, modern, high up, and hushed, looking down over midtown Manhattan. Preminger was a small Austrian man, elegant but not formal.

  “Mr. Preminger, thank you for taking the time to see me,” I said across his desk.

  “Yes, of course, but what is it?” he asked.

  “Well, I was wondering who you’ve hired to do hair for the film.”

  “I’ve hired my wife’s hairdresser, who has the best salon in New York.”

  My heart sank. Any other young actress would have stopped right there. I don’t even know what gave me the nerve to request this meeting in the first place. This was a very important director. But since I’ve never been one to hold my tongue, I went on.

  “I understand the weather can be very humid in New Orleans.”

  “Yes? So?” He was tapping a pen on his desk, and I was getting more nervous.

  “Well, humidity can have a strong effect on hair. So I’d just like to make this suggestion because I’m not sure you’ve ever had to deal with this before.”

  “What is the suggestion, Miss Carroll?”

  “Well, it would be wonderful if someone was on the set who could straighten out frizzy hair. Does this man who does your wife’s hair know anything about straightening hair? Because he might need to have some understanding of curling irons, pressing combs, and hair relaxants.”

  With that, the great director, whose temper had earned him the nickname “Otto the Terrible,” jumped out of his seat. He was shorter than I was, and it seemed to me that sparks were shooting out of his eyes. I could see at that moment why he’d been cast as a Nazi officer in a Broadway play and two films. I leaned back from his anger.

  “Are you telling me who to hire for this film?” he said. “I never allow any actor to dictate how I should direct a film. I wouldn’t allow Elizabeth Taylor to tell me how to do her hair in a film, and I won’t allow it from you!”

  Outside his office, phones had been ringing nonstop. He was a very busy man with too much on his plate.

  “Whatever you say, sir,” I said as I stood with bowed head. “Whatever you say.”

  I had to laugh as I left his office. He and I had
been in a hair situation years before, over my bandanna in Porgy and Bess. I suspected, though, fond as I was of him, that he was going to eat his words on the set of Hurry Sundown.

  Being the conscientious, or perhaps controlling performer that I am, I called his wife’s hairdresser, introduced myself as a supporting actress on the picture, and invited him to see my show at the Plaza. Afterward, he came to say hello in my dressing room, and I introduced him to my hairstylist, who tried to show him what he did with my hair. But this man took one look at the equipment, which was really pretty basic (hot comb, curling iron, and assorted hair products), and he said, “I really don’t know anything about any of this,” and left without further discussion.

  One evening, months later, we were on the Hurry Sundown set in New Orleans. We were shooting the star-studded film about racism, greed, and emotional unrest in the contemporary South on a front porch, and lo and behold, it started to drizzle. I was doing a scene with Robert Hooks, a wonderful leading man. There were several pieces of equipment on the set. There was, in particular, this very large crane that Mr. Preminger was inside of, high above us, which was costing him a fortune to rent for the evening. As we rehearsed the scene, he came floating down with the camera, all very slowly, to almost close-up distance.

  While Mr. Preminger was behind the camera Robert whispered to me, “You’re getting wet.”

  I knew my hair was frizzing up. I could feel it happening; your hair just gets bigger and asserts itself when it’s raining. I was wearing a hairpiece, but some of my real hair was showing, and it was changing from moment to moment. And so this little god in the sky, Otto Preminger, in his big yellow crane, started yelling, “Hairdresser!” And this poor New York hairdresser named Leonard came out and started to fuss with my hair. Otto was bright red, beet red, up in his bright yellow crane.

  “What should I do?” this hairdresser asked me in a panic. “The hair has to match the previous shot. You know that!”