Spinning out of control as an adult always brought me back to my childhood, when I had absolutely no control. I only wanted to live with my mom. Her reply to that was that it was impossible because of her irregular hours at work. Television wasn’t as integrated with nontraditional families then as it is now, so I had no way of knowing that other single mothers made working and raising a child doable. Reluctantly I took her word for boarding out being the only solution and yearned for the day when we could be together. My mom’s answer to everything was that my “boarded homes” kept me clean and neat. She was so proud that she had finally taught Margie the “right” way to fix my hair. In my mom’s eyes, my life at Margie’s was improving. I think good grooming was really important to her because she made up for her lack of education by being beautiful, and that was always her entrée to work and men. Besides, she would say, “We get to see each other and have fun when I’m not working, don’t we, Chrissie?”
Now I understand with the help of therapy and time that it was normal to feel isolated and alone without my mom. I was a powerless child living in a house where I didn’t belong. My childlike solution was that maybe, just maybe, if my mom thought my foster homes weren’t keeping me clean or neat enough, she would let me live with her. But it was my withdrawal and depression, reported by the school principal a few years later, that finally made my mom see that her solution, even with good hair, was not working.
Now, at UCLA, and taking the combination of steroids and methotrexate, my lab results came back okay. I was still anemic, which accounted for my light-headedness. There was some fluid buildup on one elbow that Dr. Kalunian aspirated with a long needle that once would have made me faint. A little dry cough that I hardly noticed, but we’d keep an eye on it. Plane travel played havoc with my joints and my respiratory tract, and I seemed to always be on an airplane.
“I need to get through the next ten days. I have five days of live TV work. Just get me through this next period and then we can adjust,” I pleaded. It was a plea Dr. Kalunian heard over and over, every time my schedule went into overdrive.
“That means we can’t start taking the steroids down until you get home,” Dr. Kalunian said.
“But all of this weight and I can’t sleep at night. I am wound like a top. I feel like I’m spinning all the time.”
“Christine, the only way I can control your disease right now is with the combination of steroids and methotrexate. It’s working pretty well, so let’s not fool around until you’re over this intense work period,” Kalunian advised. I knew he was right. I could always shop for some new, looser dresses in New York while I worked on the makeovers. Something that fashionably hid my body. Here was an ironic advantage of working in an industry that didn’t tolerate weight gain: I was remarkably adept at camouflaging it.
In the teddy Shelly loved, now stretched almost to the breaking point over my swollen body, and only one candle burning on my bedside table, we said our romantic good-byes on Wednesday night. Most of the time Shelly arranged his schedule so he could come to New York when I worked, and I did the same when he had to travel, but this time he had to be in Los Angeles, and we would be apart for eight days.
“Let’s stand in front of the mirror, I want to remember you in this teddy all week,” my aroused husband whispered, referring to the mirrored closet doors in our bedroom. I didn’t want to stand in front of any mirror, even in the dim light, and reveal how tight the teddy looked. With some playful distraction he forgot all about his request.
Right before I closed my eyes to go to sleep I looked over at my bedside table, trying in the dark to locate my small round stone with the word “Believe” etched on it. I knew it was there, nestled somewhere between all the stacked books and candles. It was the last thing I looked at before going to sleep. I had placed more of these stones ‘around the house: in the bathroom where I did my makeup, in the kitchen where I cooked and now ate everything in sight, on my desk where I organized segments and worked at my computer. I kept a smaller version in my purse and my travel luggage. They were a constant reminder that if I believed I would be okay, I would. And lately, as so many medicines had failed me, I needed daily reminding. On this night, I moved it closer to the edge of the table so I could reach over and run my aching fingers over the etched word “Believe.” On this night with a busy workweek ahead of me, I needed extra belief.
New York was not easy in February, especially when I was on a demanding, tight schedule with no room for error. The daily weather report informed me how easy or difficult my day would be. That particular Friday, the first day of making over a couple for Monday’s show, the prediction was for snow in the early afternoon. Snow meant problems. A few years back a storm hit New York during a week of makeovers, and the city shut down. Literally. Offices closed, people were sent home, and car services were called back to their headquarters. I had to beg and plead to keep our driver as we crawled through the traffic-jammed city as everyone fought to get out. I had no choice then and no choice this day. Experience had taught me to have two assistants and two cars lined up for every day during the bad-weather months. Don’t take chances; there was no time for emergencies. The logistical problems we had on a good day were staggering. This was my schedule:
Nine o’clock a.m: Met Couple No.1 at the studio. In their early thirties, they had great, untapped potential. Both had pale skin and mousy-colored brown virgin hair. The wife told me during the phone interview that she cuts their hair and, in person, I would have guessed it. I talked with them about our itinerary and hyped them about the experience. They already agreed before confirming their trip that I could do “anything” I needed for their makeover. People always agree on the phone; in person, it was another thing.
Ten fifteen A.M: “Before” shot was taken of the couple together and then individually. No makeup or smiling allowed. Oh, and I encouraged them to wear dull colors or busy prints. Basically, I was looking for the worst imaginable Sears photo shoot. My assistant Amy would take the husband to Bloomingdale’s to start pulling clothes while I took the wife to the salon to start on her hair, where my second assistant Bonnie would help. Fortunately, the couple resembled the picture they sent in with their nomination letter except for the wife’s front chipped tooth, which had to be fixed.
“Amy, call Dr. Rosenthal and see if we can stop by on our way to the salon. I think we need a bonding on the front teeth.” I stalled while Amy called, revving up our couple for their day and reiterating once again the importance of their not seeing each other or talking about what makeover changes we made that day. We needed the big reveal on camera. They were booked at separate hotels and would be separated in the dressing rooms at the studio but, bottom line, we depended on them playing along. Some did, but others loved the mischievousness of hooking up the night before and trying out their new looks on each other.
“Rosenthal is okay for the bonding, no problem,” Amy said. Off we went in different cars, different directions and began our intense day of makeovers.
Ten thirty A.M: Amy took the husband shopping. My second assistant Bonnie and I took the wife to Dr. Rosenthal’s office for a quick consultation.
Eleven fifteen A.M: Teeth impressions made, Bonnie and I arrived at the salon for hair consultation.
Eleven forty-five A.M: Consultation completed and work started on the wife. I left for Bloomingdale’s to see what clothing Amy pulled for the husband. Made a few minor changes. He had a contemporary outfit of cargo-pocketed cords, a high-cut V-neck cashmere sweater, and sports coat. A pair of sunglasses, even though it was February, would make a dramatic camera impression in the morning. I made an excuse about needing to work on the schedule in order to sit in the dressing room and give my aching body a rest. Amy took the husband to lunch in Bloomingdale’s and then would pick out shoes while we stalled the return to the salon until his wife was done and moved out of his sight. I headed back to the salon, amazed that it was only noon and my knees and feet were already screaming.
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sp; Twelve thirty P.M: I arrived at the salon and saw that the wife’s hair color was still a little drab. Television lights and cameras soaked up color, and I needed that wow factor when she walked out for the reveal.
“Let’s add some baby-blond highlights right in front to pop her color,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. Bonnie informed me privately that she had already had three color applications to get where they were now and our makeover was getting a little nervous. It was my job to assure her that all was well and she only needed a minor tweaking, nothing damaging, in order to reach perfection. A hand on her shoulder as I talked helped her feel my confidence and she was once again happy and eager to see her new cut and style and hit the stores for her head-to-toe outfit. She was a sweet, shy lady who never invested any time or money in her looks. She hardly smiled, probably because of the chip in her tooth.
This was why I loved working on makeovers. The potential to change someone’s life for the better inspired me. To show someone they were more than they thought, that they could rise above anything, took me back to my childhood where I never felt worthy. Because my mother boarded me in other people’s homes, I was always the outsider, the unwanted one. A weekend several times a month with my mother wasn’t enough to give me a feeling of self-worth. And so with each makeover, right before the cameras went on, I looked at where I was and what I’d accomplished and remembered where I came from and I knew I was meant to do this work.
One o’clock P.M: We ordered lunch and ate in the salon amid plastic capes, hair color, and cut hair on the floor as the work continued. By now I was used to a few hair clippings in my salad.
One thirty P.M: The color was perfect. We proceeded with the cut. Amy called to inform me that our husband was well dressed and well fed and ready for the salon. I told her to take him for a coffee and plan to arrive at the salon by Two thirty.
“Amy, will you stop on your way back to the salon and buy me a chocolate milk?” I had to coat my stomach so I could take a pain pill to help me survive the rest of the day. Amy knew to call before entering the salon to make sure we had the wife hidden. We couldn’t take any chance of passing in the elevator or on the street.
Two thirty P.M: Hair completed, Bonnie took the wife to Bloomingdale’s to shop. I would meet them as soon as I started the husband in the salon.
Three o’clock P.M: Husband arrived, we consulted and decided his mustache needed to come off since his hair was short and not easily changed. He reluctantly agreed once I told him we were going to put a few sun-inspired highlights in his brown hair. “Put a little self-tanner on his face to blend the pale skin where his mustache was,” I told one of the salon assistants, handing them a tube of instant tanner I always carried in my work tote. Men loved the personal attention even though they didn’t often like to admit it. All was under control at the salon, so I headed back to Bloomingdale’s to see how our wardrobe was coming together, calling Rosenthal’s office to update them on our time schedule. They needed us at the office as soon as possible to start the bonding process. In the cab I gulped my chocolate milk with my pain pill.
Three fifteen p.m: On the fourth floor of Bloomingdale’s, I found a distraught and slightly hostile wife. Amy had picked out a Jackie-O-inspired sleeveless shift dress in a chocolate brown with a pink band at the hem. Stunning, but our makeover hated it.
“I look frumpy, I want to look sexy,” she complained, glaring at the evil Amy, who insisted she looked incredible.
“She wants something with cleavage,” Amy explained, taking me aside. She informed me that four children have taken their toll on her cleavage and it was best to cover it up. My only chance to get past this was to appear to give in.
“If she wants cleavage, let’s try cleavage,” I said, as I made my way through the racks looking for low-cut items. Armed with several it was back to the dressing rooms, where a happy make-over candidate thought I was taking her side.
“Try these on one at a time and come out and show me, even if you don’t like it, just to give me an idea of what works and what doesn’t,” I said. I whispered to Amy, “Don’t comment when she comes out.”
With each change our makeover grew more excited, loving the revealing clothes. Only problem was that they revealed way too much. “I think we can find something better, this one hides your legs. You have incredible legs, let’s show them off,” I said. Slowly I convinced her that her legs were her best assets, not her breasts. “Would you mind trying the brown dress on for me just one more time, I need to see the shape so we know where to go from here” and she willingly agreed. I had won her over.
“Oh my God, you look incredible. This dress makes you look taller and slimmer and sexier than any of the other outfits. If we add a pair of stilettos, your husband will go crazy. You look sexier than Michelle Pfeiffer” (recalling a name she mentioned to me on the phone when I asked her what celebrities she liked). She agreed. Amy quickly brought me a pair of high, high pumps, and it was a done deal. She looked and felt hot. Sizzling actually.
“Now for the fun part, accessorizing. I want to find the sexiest underwear in the store and some chandelier earrings that will sparkle and swing as you walk out to greet your adorable husband.” By four forty-five we were finished. Mission completed, so far. My pain pill was finally working, allowing my feet to work even though my stomach ached from being overly medicated.
Five fifteen p.m: The snow had arrived, but thankfully it was a light flurry. Most of it melted before it hit the ground. Amy took our makeover to Dr. Rosenthal’s office for bonding, and I returned to the salon to check her husband’s progress. He was in the midst of getting a manicure and pedicure to fill time waiting for my return. He looked wonderful. It never ceased to amaze me what a stylish haircut, a little hair color, and some instant tanner would do. The color change was lighter than I anticipated, but very Brad Pitt, and it suited him. The self-tanner was just enough color to make him look as if he spent the day by the pool. He loved the attention, especially the young manicurist, fluttering her long lashes and bending over his cuticles with half her breasts hanging out. Not wanting to take away from his obvious enjoyment, I quickly complimented him.
“You look great, wait until your wife sees you on Monday. Now remember, no contact over the weekend. Bonnie will get you back to your hotel and pick you up at six thirty Monday morning. I’ll check in with you on Sunday. Wash your hair and shave Monday before we pick you up. We’ll bring your new clothes. Have a relaxing weekend.” I’m sure he was thinking of her all weekend. The Friday couple’s makeover was always the most difficult because they have to be in the city on their own and separated until Monday.
Six o’clock p.m: I arrived at Rosenthal’s office. Bonding was in progress, so I had a few minutes to relax and browse through magazines in the waiting room. My chest was slightly congested, but my body was trying to figure it all out, conflicted between pain pill sedation and steroid-induced hyperactivity.
“Amy, will you get me a chamomile tea?” In the quiet after-hours of the office I tried to unwind with a magazine, but my mind raced, plotting out tomorrow’s activities. The week had only just begun.
“I need to see her in the office tomorrow,” Dr. Rosenthal informed me, coming into the empty waiting room. “She’s disappointed, because she can’t wait to see her new teeth, but she’s also tired and not tolerating the bonding well tonight. I would rather finish up after she gets a good night’s rest. Can you have her here at ten o’clock A.M?”
“Of course, she probably didn’t get any sleep the night before flying to New York, and with all the excitement of today it’s a good idea to finish tomorrow.”
Amy arrived back with my tea, and I asked about her availability Saturday. “I’m going to a wedding in New Jersey.”
“Ah, well, I’ll give Bonnie a call,” I said.
“Bonnie’s invited to the same wedding” Amy said. I knew it would be me and my makeover bonding, literally, for most of Saturday.
Seven thirty
P.M: We all left Rosenthal’s office in a heavier snow that now blanketed the city. My makeover was exhausted. “Why don’t you order room service and just relax tonight? I’ll pick you up at Nine thirty in the morning,” I said as we made the first cab stop at her hotel.
Eight fifteen P.M: I walked through the doors of my hotel, starving and exhausted. I had no plans for the weekend that didn’t include work. In the city that never stopped, I needed to stop and conserve my energy.
At the show on Monday morning we struggled to keep the makeover couple separated. Their excitement levels were off the charts, and between the awareness of being on national television and the anticipation of seeing each other, many trips to the bathrooms were necessary. The studio’s men’s and women’s bathrooms were right next to one other, so I had Bonnie stand guard for fear that they would bump into each other. The make-overs’ energy filled our small dressing room, affecting everyone from the hair designers to the assistants. When the stage manager came to take us to the stage, it all fell into place. A calmness came over everyone. From the dentist to the makeup artist, the camaraderie of our work was now standing in front of us, beaming, her hands clasped tightly together to keep them from shaking. The theme music swelled, and off we went. It was show-time.
Regis introduced the husband first and the audience went wild. After I explained what was done to our makeover guy we took a commercial break. I didn’t think he’d make it until his wife came out, he was so eager to see her.
“Did you change her hair color?” the husband asked.
“You’ll see in a minute,” I answered, trying to calm him down and get him to stand on the taped X on the floor, his camera mark.
“Do you think she’ll like my look?” he asked.
“She’ll love it,” I answered, adjusting his sweater, which he had somehow twisted on his torso.
“Are you ready to see the missus?” Regis asked.
Take Me Home From the Oscars: Arthritis, Television, Fashion, and Me Page 8