A family affair! Getting my father in on the brow action isn’t easy. Mom holds him down while I go to work.
She stored her Tweezerman with the same meticulousness— in felt bags in a box, as she did her Chanel bags. It was handled with the utmost care. Whenever I went out with my mother, at least one person commented on her flawless brows—they were curvaceously arched and thick without being too thick. And according to her manicurist, they “opened up her eyes.”
I wanted my eyebrows to open up my eyes. And at the age of twelve, my mother gave me my first lesson. She told me to imagine the shape first and she held the side of the Tweezerman against my brow on a diagonal to show me a line to follow. The line began on the underside of the brow and sloped upward to the center of the brow. “Pluck below that line only,” she instructed. And we began . . . as I screamed in pain. Virgin skin is very sensitive. “You’ll get used to it,” she assured me.
And I did. Maybe too used to it. I started plucking religiously. Every time I saw even a trace of stubble, I went to work. But it was more than just grooming. Removing a hair, grabbing it from its root and ripping it from its follicle, gave me the same kind of sick thrill as popping a pimple. Then the inevitable happened: I overplucked. And I really do mean overplucked. By the time I was finished one Saturday afternoon, I had almost no hair left above my eyes. The line was so pencil-thin that when I took a step back to see the damage I had done in my attempts to even things out and constantly correct mishaps, I was aghast. And almost bald!
I called my mother at work in a panic. “I’ve gone and done it,” I cried. “I can never leave the house again. I’m a monster!” When she got home and saw me, her eyes popped out of her head. She stared in silence and covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh, my God, what did you do?” she finally said, horrified. She grabbed my hand and yanked me up the stairs to her office—the bathroom. I sat on the toilet seat and she tried to correct the errors of my ways. Out came eye shadow and pencil. She managed to draw in my brows well enough that I could go to school Monday without being mocked severely.
I was warned that overplucking may be hazardous to your face. Hair doesn’t always grow back. Luckily mine did. Though it took a few months, during which time I was so self-conscious I took to wearing hats on most days. When they grew back, my mother presented me with my own Tweezerman, hoping I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. I was warned about dropping Tweezerman, as it dulls the points (when they dull, however, you can send it back and the company will sharpen it). From that day on, I have been a brow fanatic.
I still run to the bathroom to remove unwanted errant hairs as soon as I see them pop up. I inherited many of my mom’s routines, right down to the felt bag. I have the magnifying mirror and even a heat lamp that emits the kind of fluorescent light that makes it really easy to see every minor and teeny little pore. I sometimes get stuck in my bathroom for forty minutes at a time, examining my brows and trimming the hairs with nail scissors. Over the years I have learned not to overpluck, a struggle against my obsessive nature.
Raising a Brow
The first step to fashionable beauty is the creation of a beautiful face, which means eyebrows, eyebrows, eyebrows!
Brows are perhaps the most important part of the fashionista regimen. Fashionistas swear by their Tweezerman tweezers. There are two basic kinds—the slanted and the pointy; we prefer pointy, but when traveling, do not put them in your carry-on, lest the airport metal-detector cops confiscate them . . . and there is nothing worse than being out of town sans tweezers! The shape of the fashionista brows are always perfectly arched, not flat, not straight. Never mono. A few examples:
The uptown girl—A rounded, softly pretty arch that is closest to the natural shape.
The earthy chick—Grown out slightly fuller, but still shaped. Just not superarched. (No stray hairs, please.)
The flaming gay—Male fashionistas tweeze and trim their brows but make it look as if they don’t by leaving a few stray hairs. Perfectly tweezed male brows are too queeny!
The bitch—Severe arch. For those who prefer a power look, try the full-on upside-down V.
The neurotic—The neurotic’s brows are too thin—sometimes the more she plucks, the more she has to! Put those tweezers away!
The Shape of Your Brow Should Be
Dictated by the Shape of Your Face.
Follow These Guidelines
If you have . . .
A round face—Consider a high, peaked, slightly full brow à la Brooke Shields, to counter the fullness of your face.
A square face—By all means, do not pluck eyebrows in a straight line. Try a gently sloping arch with a peak in the middle.
An oval face—Don’t make too high an arch. Gently sloped without peaking in the middle is the best.
A heart-shaped face—Keep your eyebrows delicate and light; don’t grow them in too heavily or use too much brow makeup to darken. It will overwhelm your face.
How to Fill in Your Eyebrows
Eyebrow shade, whether it’s specifically made as eyebrow filler or as eye shadow, should only be half of a shade darker than your hair. Use a thin, angled makeup brush and eyebrow powder instead of a pencil. This creates a softer line. Dab it on lightly from the inner brow to the outside. If you press hard and draw like you would with a pencil, the line will be too pronounced and unnatural.
PUT ON A LITTLE MAKEUP, MAKEUP, WE’RE GONNA HAVE A GOOD TIME, GOOD TIME
The Michael Jackson Makeover MELISSA
My favorite friend my senior year in college was Matt, a blond varsity swimmer from Chicago who had dropped off the team in order to spend his nights at sweaty nightclubs in Chelsea, dressed only in Daisy Dukes and a white tank top. He was hilariously, outlandishly queer. Matt lived dangerously and with much gusto. He and his boyfriend, Garret, spent their junior year abroad in Paris. They arrived at the airport hungover, wearing trench coats, with a boom box on each shoulder, blasting house music at full volume. The French didn’t have a chance. Matt and I perfected the art of hanging out and doing absolutely nothing. We bonded over vodka and cigarettes, entertaining ourselves with stories from our childhoods.
One night we were hanging out as usual in my crappy dormitory room, wearing three sweaters each, since the university had yet to fix the heating. (We must have looked like winos crowded around the ashtray.) We were on our fifth cocktail, and I had just finished telling Mark his favorite story—about how my family had lived in high style in Manila.
Matt just thrilled at the word chauffeur. He rolled it around on his tongue, savoring it. His parents were divorced, and his mother bought all their clothes from thrift stores and once served them canned turkey for Thanksgiving; hence, he loved all things glamorous.
“What are we going to do now?” Matt asked, stubbing out his cigarette.
“Dunno.”
It was ten o’clock on a Saturday night and we hadn’t even left my room. All the other kids were asleep or flirting with members of the opposite sex. Matt’s boyfriend, Garret, was in the library studying for finals. Since we were flat broke, Matt and I had to steal a bottle of vodka from a suite on the fifth floor, which we filled with water before returning to make it look like nothing happened.
“I know! I have a brilliant idea,” Matt said. “I’ll give you a makeover!” He told me he loved applying makeup to women’s faces, and that he would be honored if I let him work his magic on me. I thrilled to the idea and immediately brought out my hefty makeup bag.
I closed my eyes and felt Matt’s soft hands fluffing, blending, brushing my face. “I think we’re going to do you as a diva!” he promised, one cigarette hanging off his lip. An hour later he handed me the mirror.
The fact that I didn’t scream was a testament to how much I valued our friendship. I didn’t look like Diana Ross, more like Michael Jackson! My eyes were grotesquely encased in a green glitter shadow, my eyebrows exaggerated for primo Bride of Frankenstein effect, and my lips were bloodied a candy red. I was hideou
s.
“I . . . I . . . I love it!” I said.
“Well, we certainly can’t stay here with you looking like that!” Matt said.
Oh, yes, we can.
Instead of arguing, I gulped and changed my clothes, and Matt and I hit the popular college bar down the street. A guy I had a crush on took one look at me and turned away without saying hello. When Garret met up with us later, he gave me a sympathetic look.
“Matt give you a makeover?” he whispered.
“Do you think I did this to myself?” I asked.
We never told Matt that he wasn’t going to be the next Kevin Aucoin. Some things are better kept between friends.
I Must Look Really Bad Without Makeup!
KAREN
Some people are genetically predisposed to pure natural beauty. They don’t need blush, foundation, mascara, lipstick. Clear complexions don’t require expensive facial cleansers, exfoliation formulas, and skin regimens. They can roll out of bed and be good to go. I am not one of those girls, which is sometimes a problem because I don’t really love wearing makeup unless I’m going to an event or doing something special, be it a work meeting or a date with my man.
I have dark circles under my eyes, permanent sun spots in the form of dark rings, an uneven skin tone, not to mention constant breakouts around the chin region. Because I work from home, I don’t have to make myself up that regularly. I get to stay in sweats, skip a shower from time to time, and wear zit cream on my face all day long if I need to. I don’t always think about how I look when I’m doing neighborhood errands. If I need to pick up paper for my printer or soy cheese from the health food store, I run out as is— hair atop of my head, pink splotches of drying lotion on my face and all.
I am an extremist. So when I’m not made up, I’m really not made up. But when I am, I go all-out. I have as much makeup as a professional artist, including specific camouflage for under my eyes, as well as a cream for the aforementioned sunspots, four shades of eyebrow filler to go with whatever color hair I’m sporting that season, over a hundred lip glosses, Bobbi Brown’s leather case of all the right brushes, two kinds of eyelash curlers (one I use for just the edges when I want an angular catlike look). I have cream shadow, powder shadow, and a million tricks up my sleeve. I use red lipstick as blush in emergencies, Kiehl’s lip balm as gloss for any lipstick, and when I want my eyes to really pop, I apply liner on the inside of the lid—on the top (a little something I picked up from makeup artist Sue Devitt)!
I hate to think that I look really different when I’m made up versus when I’m not. But I must. I practically live at Cones, a yummy sorbet shop on Bleecker Street, where it’s illegal to get a small cup with more than one flavor, but because I’m such a regular customer, the owner allows me to break the rules.
I went there after a nice dinner once and asked for my usual— raspberry and pineapple. The same guy who gives me special treatment every single day looked me in the eye and said, “Sorry, one flavor for the small cup. . . . Can’t you read the sign?”
I pleaded, “It’s me. It’s Karen.” He refused to believe me.
“Take the lipstick off and put your hair up. Let me see,” he ordered. I had no idea that I was so unrecognizable. I pulled my hair back and wiped off my lipstick. The old man apologized and told me I cleaned up nice. Call me crazy, but I’m not really sure it’s a compliment.
Lip Service: Take Care of Those Puckerers
Clean lips with an exfoliating scrub.
Pat with foundation or a specific lip-prep lotion.
If you use lip liner, do not line the lips, but fill in entirely. Dark liner surrounding lighter lipstick is very unchic.
Vary your lipstick color. If you are always wearing browns, try a rich red, a pale sheer, or vice versa. You will be surprised how much a little change lights up your face. Don’t get stuck in a rut. In fact, mix and match your colors to create something new.
To prevent lipstick from smearing on your teeth, after you apply it, stick your finger in your mouth, wrap your lips around it, and slowly pull it out of your mouth. A ring of lipstick will remain on your finger—the very lipstick that would have eventually landed on your teeth. Do this twice to make sure you get it all.
Tip: Lighter colors make the lips appear bigger. Dark lipsticks make lips look smaller and thinner.
The Color Chart
Red. Blue-red. Orange-red. Plum. Pink. Glossy. Matte. Golden. There are so many color choices to play with (and so little time). What every fashionista needs to know is how to match what’s on her lips to what’s on her body. There is nothing worse than wearing a lovely coral cocktail dress with a dark wine-colored lip gloss. Below is a color chart that displays the right shade of lipstick to complement the color of your clothes.
Makeup Lessons
Unlike those who are comfortable walking around with a naked face, fashionistas adore being made up by makeup artists. Don’t be shy about popping into a counter for a quick touch up before a party, or scheduling a session with a master. Whether you’re going to an event where an ex-boyfriend is sure to be in attendance, or you need to be made up for a special occasion like your wedding, it’s time to call in the professionals. Some tips from senior makeup artists Brent Ries and Allison McGraine from the Sue Devitt Studio:
Less is more. Technique is more important than piling on product.
When applying any product from eye shadow to blush to foundation, blend correctly for precise application.
Invest in a good set of brushes. Throw away the little applicators that come in the eyeshadow compacts. The basic brushes are powder, blush, and three different eye brushes, one for the base of the lid, one for shading the crease, and one for lining.
Liquid foundation is the best. With powder foundation you are constantly adding product to your skin. This creates a cakey look.
Never leave the house without mascara. Curl lashes before applying mascara.
Bronzer is a must, but don’t go overboard. That just-got-back-from-Aruba look in the middle of December is cheesy. Start with a light hand—you can always go darker if need be.
Line your upper eyelid to create a cleaner, softer eyeliner look.
Hide dark circles with a pearly yellow cover-up.
Buy cheap lip gloss from the drugstore, but expensive eye shadow. The ones from the drugstore don’t have enough pigment and won’t last as long.
Cover blemishes but don’t try to disguise them.
LOCK ’N’ ROLL
The Love Affair MELISSA
My first love when I was a working woman in Manhattan was a guy named Julien Farell. Julien was a doe-eyed Frenchman with a soft caress and a yummy accent. He was the type who always had time for me. We had a very intimate relationship. He was my hairdresser.
He worked at the newly opened Frederik Fekkai salon on the penthouse floor of Bergdorf Goodman. He called me “Meh-leeesah!” and plied me with apple shampoo and $25 texturizer. The texturizer was part of my signature scent—boyfriends would say, “Mmmm . . . what is that smell in your hair!” Julien cost me $90, then $110, later $250 (with color), or even $480 (with many products) a month. I couldn’t resist his suggestions, his strict maintenance regimen, and seeing him every three weeks. Julien taught me that one must never look like one just had a haircut; one’s hair should always keep its fabulous shape.
Hairdressers are very seductive people. The marriage between fashionista and hairstylist is one that is often consummated. A close friend had a torrid affair with her stylist, but alas, when it was over, she could no longer get her hair cut at his salon. Julien and I, however, were on strictly platonic, hair-centered terms.
But alas, the affair had to end at some point. They always do.
The news came via a newspaper clipping. The New York Times reported that stylists at the Fekkai salon made six-figure salaries. I blanched. Here I was, playing grande madame to Julien, and the bastard was actually making more than I was! It struck me then: I couldn’t afford this. It was
the equivalent of a monthly car payment—for my hair. After three years at the Fekkai salon, I walked out of its gleaming brass doors forever. But I’ll always remember Julien fondly.
Curly Girl, All the Way
KAREN
Like most girls who have curly hair, I have spent much of my time battling the twists and turns of the locks that sprout uncontrollably from my scalp. For most of my life, I fought a nasty case of triangle head, a condition whereby your hair is flat on top and bursting out on the sides such that it resembles the shape of a triangle. I cursed my curls. So unruly were they that before my very first job interview, after college, at Condé Nast, an older, wiser fashionista instructed me to get my hair straightened. “You’ll look much more put-together,” she advised. I did, but I wasn’t happy about it. I never felt like straight hair suited me. I had a curly-girl personality. My hair needed to be wild and adventurous. I just needed to learn how to manage it.
In 1997, a publicist I knew wanted me to try a new salon in Soho, and at the time I was not wed to any one hair person. So I took her up on her offer and stepped inside Devachan. Everything about the place was different from the uptight world of uptown, self-righteous hair salons that I was used to. I was greeted with a champagne flute of sparkling water. When you get your hair washed, you lie down on an ergonomically correct massage table and you get a twenty-minute rubdown.
Lorraine Massey, the owner, a blonde with tight corkscrew curls, sat me down to talk about my hair for ample time. “You’ve got to embrace your curls and nurture them like a garden,” she said in a soothing British accent. She went on to talk about how curly hair curls because of the hair matrix being fine and devoid of moisture. She began massaging my scalp in a circular motion while asking me what I wanted from life and, hence, my hair. She talked about the circle of curls reflecting emotional cycles. She had a very spiritual approach, which I took to. But more than that, she really seemed to understand my hair and wanted to cut it in a way to get the most out of my curls and enhance my features. It was the first time a stylist didn’t cut my hair and blow it poker-straight, turning me into whatever Jennifer Aniston was sporting at that moment.
The Fashionista Files Page 17