Take Me Home From the Oscars: Arthritis, Television, Fashion, and Me

by Christine Schwab

  The door of the prestigious Chanel-building elevator let me off at the third floor, home of the Frédéric Fekkai five-story salon. Chanel had recently bought the salon, but the talented staff and Frédéric remained in place. Every time I entered the salon the beauty of both the people and the interior took my breath away. Beautiful people working on beautiful people. Exquisite decor created what looked like a set out of a Hollywood movie. The motif was country French—expensive, tasteful country French.

  My assistant, Bonnie, rushed into the elevator to greet me.

  “We have problems,” she whispered. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. We always had problems getting artistic, creative hairdressers and colorists to do what we wanted on makeover contestants who were sleep deprived from being put on a plane hours after being notified they had won a trip to New York. Most of them were, for the first time, visiting a city more populated than their entire home state. We’d spend the whole morning rushing from store to store to find the perfect TV outfit, nothing remotely close to anything they had ever seen, let alone worn. Add to all that the confusion of having their hair talked about as if it were not even attached to their heads. No wonder they so often had meltdowns. It was not unusual for a makeover to cry over hair that now lay on the floor in soft puddles of curls, or a new hair color that was unlike anything they had ever seen, let alone wore. Pair that with being overtired because of travel to New York, the excitement of the city, and the anticipation of being on live television the next morning and you have the ingredients for tears. Sometimes they are upset because of the physical change, but more often from the overwhelming, once-in-a-lifetime television experience.

  As Bonnie led me over to the stylist’s chair I saw the “problem” waiting for me, and as usual it was about hair color. Even with the best colorist in the business, making dramatic color changes for television was difficult. They had to work with hair they had never seen before, often overcolored by inexperienced people using home products. It was always a challenge.

  “We must get life into this color,” I demanded, brushing through dull brown hair that looked as if it had never seen the sun. “I want to lighten the base to a rich golden brown and then add highlights in two shades of creamy caramel.” I looked deep into the eyes of the colorist, who was already thinking this would take six hours while knowing we only had two. Silently I pleaded with him not to say out loud that our contestant’s hair was over-permed and that this would not be healthy.

  When it came to television we cared only about what we would see on the screen. We were competing with all the other shows doing makeovers, so the stakes for the show and for me as a television talent were high. It was cutthroat. I knew what we did to our makeovers was selfish and sometimes damaging. No stylist in a working salon would have made as many changes in one day as we had to in order to satisfy the producers, the critical television cameras, and the TV audience. By then I knew the game and rationalized that my contestants were being treated like queens while being processed to the max for the greedy television cameras. After all, through that royal treatment, they’d come away with a wonderful new look that might even change their lives.

  “Results, Christine, are ALL we care about. The sound of the audience as we reveal the before and after, the loud Ahhh reverberating into millions of homes around the country. Then we put them on the plane home,” the executive producer had always said. Translated: “To hell with them, make drastic changes.” In the early days of my career I balked and fought back until it became apparent that you did not fight back with an executive producer if you wanted to keep working. His stern, cold reply was always some variation of “We work in television,” as if that were a higher calling, like healing the sick. So I adapted by being upbeat and positive with the makeovers. They were excited for the opportunity and as the producer said, “We’re flying them to New York, putting them up at a good hotel, and picking up their expenses, not to mention the makeover, the free clothing, and the television exposure.” I could see both sides, but most of all I loved my work and I needed to adapt, because the show was not going to adapt to me. The television industry often had little heart.

  Running his fingers through the perm-damaged hair, the colorist played along. “Perfect, exactly what I was thinking. My darling, you will look like Christie Brinkley, you will be a goddess,” he gushed as he caressed her hair. Before she could comment, the stylist moved in with his scissors and comb, and we continued our professional banter.

  “What are your thoughts, Anthony?” I asked, as I leaned toward the woman’s ear to whisper, “Anthony does Nicole Kidman AND Catherine Zeta-Jones . . . he is totally AMAZING.”

  “Oh Christine, this is an easy one, she has the features of Meg Ryan. I’m thinking we take it all off, a really short, spiky bob, one side tucked behind her ear, very saucy and sexy,” he purred as he tucked a long straggly piece of hair behind one ear, only to reveal an overly large, forward bent, cauliflower ear. “Well, maybe we feather it around the face,” he recovered quickly, folding the hair to a high-cheekbone length that covered the ear. “Yes, that’s it, perfect, you will look FABULOUS darling, just fabulous.”

  Because it was always a battle for control in the salon, and I needed to keep the upper hand, I spoke up: “And just a few wispy bang pieces to float gently above her eyes.”

  “Perfect,” Anthony said as he turned to face his assistant. “Philippe, will you take our beautiful makeover to start her color, we haven’t a second to waste.” Makeover No.1 was whisked away. I found numbers easier than names, because there were so many makeovers and so little time. I never directly called them a number. I used enduring pet names—“sweetie,” “doll,” and “honey” worked just fine. No.1 was savoring the sexy musk smell of the leave-in conditioner being massaged into her hair.

  “How are our Makeovers No.2 and No.3?” I asked Bonnie, preparing myself for the complications that always arise when I have three makeovers to complete in one day. Bonnie pulled me to the side. We had learned that keeping the hairdressers happy was as hard as keeping the producers happy; egos are egos, they all were gigantic.

  “You better check the color on No.2,” Bonnie said. “It’s way too red. I tried to tell them, but they just blew me off. Her overly bleached blond hair has a lot of breakage. Fortunately she had her head back in the sink and couldn’t see what washed down the drain. We’ve wrapped her head in a towel, waiting for you.” I glanced over to one side of the salon and saw Makeover No.3 in a brown silky smock with her client informational card tucked in the pocket, like a car needing to be serviced. At the time I wasn’t aware that it was also like a patient in a hospital, dressed in one of their dreadful smocks with the medical chart clipped to the end of their bed.

  “She’s in shock with the color, thinks it looks black,” Bonnie whispered.

  “Let’s see No.3, the dye-back, first,” I answered. A dye-back is a head of hair that is overbleached and usually a straw consistency, a head of hair that has simply lost all resemblance to hair. The solution is to put color back into the hair. The problem is that the overporous hair doesn’t want to hold lighter colors, but it sucks up dark colors, making them appear darker than intended. Add to that a woman who is used to looking at herself with the palest of hair, and even a deeper blond color looks black to her in contrast. Experience had taught me that every dye-back thought her hair looked black. In this case, as I removed her tightly tucked turban towel, I saw it actually did.

  “Ah,” I murmured with what I hoped was a comforting voice, “the perfect base color for some soft tone on tone. “I ran my fingers through her mushy, spaghetti-textured hair. “Let’s dry a small patch in the back and check, but it looks to me like we’re right on target. Paris,” I smiled my sweetest smile at the finicky hairdresser with the purple streaks in her hair, “I think our lovely lady deserves a steaming cappuccino.”

  Turning my full attention to the overtired, overwhelmed lady in the chair, I cooed, “Isn’t this the most amazing
salon? You know people come from all over the world to have their hair done here, for thousands of dollars. Between your hair and your outfit, you’ll be a million-dollar baby tomorrow morning when you’re standing in front of the cameras.” I turned the chair away from the mirror so she could sip her cappuccino while we dried a piece of hair and figured out where to go from here. This would require a private conference. This would require some magic.

  No.2, the redhead, was indeed too bright. Given the hot lights and the cameras that would bear down on her in the morning, she risked looking like a dancer at a strip bar. “Let’s give her a delicate brown glaze for shine,” I said, which translated to, “Tone this sucker way down, we can’t have clown hair on TV. Bonnie, I brought some cookies from the bakery, they’re in a box by my tote, perfect with our coffees.” I plopped myself down between the redhead and the dye-back, both to get off my still-aching feet and to keep the makeovers from talking to each other.

  “What about manicures? We must have lovely nails for their debut. Bonnie, can you arrange for manicures while we put the finishing touches on their hair color?” I used my most positive tone, then I pulled Bonnie aside and whispered, “I’ve got to run to the store and pick up some Tylenol.”

  “But Christine, you can’t leave now,” Bonnie frantically pleaded.

  “Bonnie, if I don’t get something to ease this throbbing headache I’ll go berserk. You can handle this. I’ll be right back.” I hated lying to Bonnie and leaving her to deal, but after all the running around the city, my feet hurt so badly that the pain was almost unbearable. It was either go around the corner to someplace where I could sit and slip my sneakers off and rub my aching feet for a few minutes or go crazy. I opted for the sneaker break.

  Glancing at my watch, I realized Shelly must be wrapping up the day at his New York office and heading back to meet me at Cafe Luxembourg across town. I might be able to reach him in time to change our plans. I was just not up for going out to dinner, emotionally or physically.

  “Shelly, let’s have dinner at the hotel. I’m beat and it’s going to be at least another hour before I can meet you. I’ve got to be at the studio by 5:00 in the morning, I hate to change our plans, but . . .”

  “No problem, I’ll call the Shaws and tell them we can’t make it tonight and meet you back at the hotel. Don’t rush, we can order up whenever you get back.”

  It still took me by surprise how nothing was a problem with Shelly. We’d somehow seamlessly combined our two hectic schedules. He usually planned his monthly business trips to New York to coincide with my television work or I planned my trips around his New York schedule. Regardless of how busy or tired we were, being together was more important. I could be researching a fashion shoot on my computer while Shelly caught up with Variety and The Hollywood Reporter and classical music played on the stereo. As long as we could spend time in the same room, we were happy. I felt adored.

  Adored was not a word associated with my childhood. The move to Mama Dorothy’s, as I look back on it now, was like taking someone out of a warm environment and dropping them off in the Antarctic. Mama Dorothy took in children, not to adore them, love them, or see that they flourished under her roof, but rather to make money to pay her bills. She fed us and kept us clean. I don’t remember any laughter. I don’t remember any warmth. She ruled her household with fear, of what I am not certain. All I do remember is living for each visit with my mom and my Auntie Jo and dreading each return to Mama Dorothy’s. Her impatience and temper would fly, and for those of us living in her house, we never knew who would be the unlucky recipient. I do remember that I never wanted it to be me.

  Recently I was having a harder and harder time keeping up with Shelly’s energy. It seemed like overnight I needed more rest, which even at forty-three was unheard of for me. Shelly could get by on four or five hours of sleep a night. Five minutes of downtime after a busy day, and he was ready for a business dinner. Lately I didn’t feel like myself. Walking distance’s that I never thought twice about before now seemed painfully long. I looked for places to sit where I would usually stand. The more I sat, the more I noticed others seeking out resting places. We looked at each other, almost as if knowing something was wrong. The secret club of people looking for a moment of relief in the form of a bench, a chair, a stool, or a leaning place. What I didn’t know at the time was that fatigue was a symptom of rheumatoid arthritis. At the time I didn’t even know what rheumatoid arthritis was.

  Everything from grabbing coffee out to going through my mail now required a chair. Trying to keep up with Shelly’s weight training in the gym caught up with me, too. I told myself next week, when we returned home, I’d take some downtime to make myself whole again. I tried to console myself that I was just tired, just pushing too hard, and putting in too many treadmill hours.

  Deep down I worried. This felt like something more than just being tired.

  3

  Gulping Tylenol

  OCTOBER 1990

  New York was always exciting, but hotel living, when it’s not a vacation but rather a working trip, can become claustrophobic. Rooms in New York are very expensive, small, and often dark if you are not facing the park or a wide street. We were lucky, we had good relationships with a few of the nice hotels, and because both Shelly and I were regulars, we were often upgraded to park views or larger rooms. But during busy travel seasons when hotels were sold out all over the city, we were lucky to get a room. So coming home to our light and airy condo one block east of Beverly Drive, right off Wilshire Boulevard, was always a treat. We were in the heart of the city while looking out large windows at trees filled with sunshine and the beautiful hills of Hollywood close by. Even the heaviest traffic in Beverly Hills seemed tame compared to the honking horns and jammed-up cars and taxis in New York. Beverly Drive was bustling at lunchtime with business people, but compared to the streets of New York it seemed empty.

  I had decorated our condo in whites and beiges, with overstuffed, welcoming couches and chairs, the exact opposite of Mama Dorothy’s dark and uninviting house. Everything at Mama Dorothy’s was covered in plastic covers or runners to keep it clean and keep us—her boarders—from damaging her home. When I sat in shorts or a skirt on her couch my legs would stick to the plastic. Some of the plastic was old and cracked and scratched and pinched my skin. But we weren’t encouraged to sit anywhere except at the cold chrome kitchen table or on the floor. “Crisscross applesauce,” Mama Dorothy always said as she pushed us down on the floor and jerked our legs into the sitting position. But even the carpeted floor was covered in plastic runners.

  When we returned home to our condo in Beverly Hills, after this last New York trip, things did not look as good to me because I was looking at them through tainted colored glasses.

  On the third day home, I went to Century City shopping center to buy a birthday gift for a friend. The parking lot was underground, so I circled around trying to find the closest open space, but everything was filled. The only spot I could find was far from any escalator to the mall, and by this time even getting in and out of the car had become not only painful but also awkward. Trying to scoot forward in the seat took strength from my feet and knees that I didn’t have. Until now I never noticed that car seats are slanted toward the back, so you fall into them. Getting dressed was agonizing, and walking caused excruciating pain with each step, beginning in my feet and quickly moving up my legs. I’d never thought about the number of steps from my car to any destination. Now I feared each one.

  “Something’s wrong with me,” I had told my family doctor a day earlier. “I think I picked up a little flu bug from the airplane travel. My body aches all over, hurts when I move, and I’m excessively tired.”

  “Were you exposed to the flu?” he asked, stethoscope to my chest.

  “I’m not sure, who knows what germs are flying around for the five hours on a plane to New York? I also overdid it on the treadmill and might have pulled a tendon or something in my feet. I can har
dly walk in anything but sneakers. Maybe it’s a combination of the treadmill and all the walking last week in New York.” I tried a little too hard to convince him this was a sports injury—or was I trying to convince myself? “I had a foot massage in New York last week and it seemed to help. I even put shoe pads in my sneakers, but now I’m home, and whatever it is seems to be getting worse.” I rattled on and on as he removed my shoes and looked at my swollen feet.

  I jerked my foot back from his painful prodding and squeezing. “Hey, they’re tender,” I complained as I watched each toe turn from red to white as his thumb pressed into them.

  “Your lungs sound fine, but there’s definitely something going on with your joints, especially your feet. I’m going to refer you to an orthopedic surgeon for X-rays.”

  I remember being relieved. Orthopedic, right, now we’re on track. Just as I thought, too much treadmill, a torn ligament for sure. A little physical therapy, and I’d be good as new.

  I was calmer, thinking that this was definitely a sports injury. I tried to ignore the fact that the pain had become more intense. I circled round and round in the Pavilion’s parking lot, my grocery list in my lap. Every close parking space was still taken. I couldn’t consider walking any distance. I hung back, waiting for someone to leave so I could nab a space close to the door. Eventually someone pulled out only a few feet from the entrance. But I would need help just getting through the store. The shopping cart became a godsend. I found that if I leaned on it, I could take some pressure off my feet. I was getting more perplexed about how difficult it was to do everyday chores. Part of me believed I was just overdoing, but part of me feared it was more.