BAD!

In writing my book, I thought that I might share some excerpts from it from time to time so that you might get an idea as to what it might be about. ALL of the people and situations are true although , I have changed their identity and circumstances so that they are unidentifiable. If you think you can see yourself or someone that you know in these excerpts, I assure you that it isn't you or them. But, hay! One never knows.

Bad!

When I lived in New York City, I made friends with a couple. Actually with Rosemary. She was French and spent her summers in the Hamptons. She would come into the city for hair color and cuts at Pierre Michael, where I was a stylist. I was immediately attracted to her and knew that we had to become friends. Rosemary was tall, blonde and one could tell, a fading beauty. John was visiting the salon with Hana in tow one summer day, as he did quite often. Rosemary was in my chair and they struck up a conversation. Soon they were laughing and chatting! It seemed that I was right. She was the perfect female friend for our unusual gay family to have. Her husband, Pierre (not as in "Michael"), was an ordinary- looking man, pale and hairless and quite successful. He built huge custom homes outside of Paris in a suburb, Marne La Coquette. They had a magnificent home in Marne that they bought several years before we met, part of a large estate that had been divided into five-acre lots.


On our first visit to La Mason DuPont, Rosemary and Pierre took us to great restaurants always embarrassed by my complaint about what the French did with a vodka martini. They could never get it right and I would be a pest in sending it back until I realized that I was not going to win this war and started to order the ingredients to mix myself at the table. They were relieved as I would no longer embarrass them at their favorite restaurants.


John, Hana and I would spend some time during the summer at the Hamptons. Sometimes at the DuPonts’ home, a stunning farmhouse that Pierre had built in East Hampton. Pierre must have extensively researched American farmhouses to be able to create this amazing mansion. From the outside, it looked like a large but modest farmhouse due to the oversized windows that made the house look to scale but inside, the place was huge. We entered by a side door that led into a mud room. Straight ahead was a great room with a kitchen on one side and a counter that separated the living area from the kitchen area. Walking further was a dining room with a table that sat twelve chairs around it, then a stairwell that was quite "grand" but not ornate at all, then another living room, then a small study and finely a sunroom. Upstairs were seven bedrooms, all very well appointed and all large. The master bedroom had Pierre's dressing room and Rosemary’s separated by a bathroom. Grand was an understatement! Smaller than their Marne home but still huge, this house was more contemporary in convenience as well as design than the other. Other times we would stay at one of the inns in East Hampton or Watermill.


Rosemary would always arrive a few days before Pierre or their three children when they were spending time in the Hamptons. She would say she was “getting the house ready" for the stay. Sometimes they would stay just a month, return to Marne and then come back to the Hamptons after a week or two. Sometimes Rosemary would come alone, just to get a rest from the kids, whom she adored. All of them were young adults, the eldest being twenty-four and the youngest nineteen. Sometimes, the kids would stay in Marne with Pierre as they "didn't want to leave their friends".


Pete was the "caretaker" at the Hamptons farmhouse. A tall African-American with a body to die for, long sexy wavy hair and a handsome face. He was in his prime, around forty-five. When they weren’t there, Pete would take care of the house as well as other houses that seemed to belong only to the French friends that had settled close to the DuPonts. Rosemary was their connection to Pete. She even gave him a cell phone just for the purpose of staying in-touch with her when she was not in the Hamptons.


John and Rosemary had an unusual relationship. They were like girlfriends, so close they would share secrets. One night, John and Rosemary went into town to get dinner. A few days later John said " I have something to tell you. You have to promise that you won't say a thing to anyone about this.'” So, I promised and then he said, "You'll never guess what I have to tell you.”


I thought of what might be the most ridiculous thing that could happen, so I said “Rosemary is having an affair with Pete.” John’s amazed response was, "How did you know?”


He and I had been friends with the DuPonts for years before the secret came out. Rosemary had put on weight, and her face had gotten older /more saggy (she was afraid of plastic surgery). Just not the mate one would think that Pete would choose. Although, when they fist met, she might have been attractive enough for a man in his thirties to want to fuck.


While Pierre was building the house, Pete would be in France visiting, or "visiting!” Even when Pierre was in Marne, He would, from time to time, be a guest at their home as well (of course Pierre and the kids would be working or at school during the day, allowing the two lovers to play). Rosemary had other secrets, like handcuffs, leather, dildos and similar equipment that she shared with John. Too bad I wasn't supposed to know. I wondered why she didn't want me to know. Was this a way of being "intimate" with John, or did she think that I might disapprove? Or maybe she imagined that someday I might write a book and put her in it.

Humble

Gia never spoke to me about her attraction to women. I was like a big brother or father figure to her. She was always appropriate with me, and wanted me to be proud of her. Early one morning after a night out in the clubs, I went to her apartment to introduce her to a young man I had met whom I thought (and I might have been very stoned) looked a lot like Gia. I wanted to do pix of the two of them together. She was in bed with her then-squeeze, who happened to be a woman. I can’t remember who she was. I think Gia was somewhat embarrassed that I knew that she was gay. She was quite put-offish that morning. She didn’t let me into her apartment, but instead threw on jeans and a jean jacket and took us outside. The idea of me photographing the two of them together didn’t excite her in the least, or maybe she felt that this young man didn’t look like her.

There were periods in her life when she tried to be straight. When I first met her, she was dating a guy with a large farm in Bucks County. She invited me to a Halloween party at the farm that year. She was the hostess, just 16 or 17 years old. Dressed to the 10’s and very much a lady that night. I assumed that her boyfriend was a drug tycoon, as Bucks County was a haven for mushrooms and other things then. I also remember meeting her at Studio 54 and she was dating a millionaire from Long Island. That didn’t last long.

I was married in 1967. I hadn’t had a lot of experience with sex with women so I thought that all women’s breasts were round, firm and beautiful. Needless to say, when I first saw my wife’s I was disappointed as they were, although ample, less than perfect. I began to realize that women’s breasts came in all shapes and sizes, big and little, dark and pink nipples, firm and flabby. In other words, some were beautiful and some not.

Wilhelmina asked me to go with Gia on her first test and do her makeup and hair. We met in the city and went to the studio of an Israeli photographer. She was nervous, quiet, and excited all at the same time. I did her make up and hair, and then he had a wardrobe for her to put on. She had to change her blouse. I thought, “ Here comes the true moment! I’m sure this perfect creature is going to expose to me less than perfect breasts.” She took off her blouse slowly to reveal, to my astonishment and delight, the most perfect breasts that I could ever imagine. It was a relief, as I was ready to accept that the treasure I had discovered would be less than perfect.

Yet Gia was quite humble--a good word to describe one of her many attributes. I booked her for a shoot when she was with the Ford modeling agency, and she was amazing. She helped the photographer as much as she could in every shoot. By that, I mean that she connected with them and gave them 10 time more than what THEY wanted! Truly a giving and wonderful person. It’s so hard for me to see the way the world wanted to portray her. Many have only focused on her destruction, not the wonderful, heartfelt person that she was.

Heart and Soul, Gia Carangi

Last Thursday, I was on Facebook for whatever reason and an old friend from my Studio 54 days popped up to say hello. Kenny and I made a date for lunch in NYC in the near future and then I got a friend request from an unknown. When I went to her page, to my surprise, her profile pic was a photo of Gia that I had taken many years ago. I asked where she got it and she directed me to a site that had multiple pics that I had taken of Gia. One thing led to another, and I became a member of a site that honored Gia's memory, Hartandsoulgiacarangi/yahoogroups. I began to recognize past friends and in particular, the person responsible for the site, Sandra Linter, a world famous makeup artist that I revered during the 70's and 80's, so I joined in and started to tell my stories of those magical days. Here, for a while, I will share my communications with hartandsoulgiacorangi/yahoogroups.com:

For those that don't know, Gia Carangi was the "First Super Model". I had discovered her in 1976 and took her to Wilhelmina Cooper, the owner of Wilhelmina Model Agency in NYC, and she herself, a famous model in the 50's.


Another story that I want to tell is the story of taking Gia to Willy!


I had hired a makeup artist for my salon in Bala Cynwyd, PA in 1987. She was a gorgeous woman named Sandra. She was an amateur photographer too. We talked photography a lot and then she wanted to see my book. I showed it to her and she flipped over the pix of Gia. Sandy had been a Wilhelmina "beauty" model, (she was too short to be a model) so she knew Willy well. She asked me if she could show Willy the pix and I said yes. Willy wanted to see Gia, so Sandra and I arranged for Gia to meet us in New York and take her to Willy. Gia was wearing white boots and was dressed very nicely and had her mother with her when Sandra and I met in a coffee shop just down the street from the agency, which was on Madison Ave in the 30's at that time. We went to the agency, got off the elevator and were whisked quickly into Willy's office by Willy's assistant. Willy was very tall, dark hair pulled back but high, quite thin, and had no chin. I though how interesting that the camera didn't care that she didn't have a chin.


She was quite excited to meet Gia, calling her dear. She asked Gia how tall she was and Gia really didn't know, so she took her over to a door jam on the side of her office and had her stand up straight against the jam. Gia appeared to be just short of the required height. Willy shrugged and said "Oh well, just about 5' 7"!" Willy mentioned a contract, got on the phone with a photographer to set up a test and asked us to return the next week so that she could send Gia on tests and start a book. Then we left. We got to the bottom of the elevator and her assistant came running down the stairs. Willy was so excited with this treasure that she forgot to give her the contract. Boy did that woman know what she had in front of her that day!
Click here to see my photos of Gia.

Love?

Recently, I was in St. Louis seeing a doctor about my neck. After spending the whole day getting there and waiting three hours for him to materialize, my return flight was canceled, so I got a hotel room, went downstairs to Applebee's (the first one that I ever set foot in) and ordered a martini. A few seats away, sitting by herself, I overheard a woman talking to a friend on her cell phone, and telling her to "make him think it was his idea.” It was quite obvious that she was giving her friend advice about her love relationship. She ended the conversation by saying, "I love you."

The night before I had watched a movie on On Demand, The Last Station. It was a remarkable film about Tolstoy and his conflict about love. I was moved to tears at the end, as it touched on something that had happened to me that morning. My niece, whom I love dearly, had written me off with a hurtful, sarcastic remark.

I was driving south from San Francisco to Carmel Valley with my nephew, Paul, in his Mini a few weeks ago. We started to talk about his recent breakup with his partner, Brian, and how painful but necessary it was. Then the conversation turned to his relationship with his parents. I mentioned that I had never seen his father display any signs of love, and his mom was not very affectionate either. Both of them would shut you out without warning from time to time for years. They used love as a bargaining tool. You either did what they expected of you, or they shut down.

Neither of them had been talking to Paul and his sister Alyssa for about two years, until Alyssa decided to bite the bullet and placate my sister-in-law in an effort to get her mom to talk to her. She wrote her an email telling her she had been the worst daughter ever, and she was now willing to change and be the best daughter ever, and she would only talk to or have relationships with people that my sister-in-law approved of (me not being one of them). I thought that Alyssa was joking and that she had no intention of sending it, but I was wrong. Her mother responded with a phone call a few days later accepting her apology. Paul and I were discussing what a desperate act this was, and how my niece was willing to end everything that she had previously professed to care about to win back her mother’s love. I suppose that some people love in desperation and others use it to get what they want.

Every once in while my own parents would come into the conversation. My mother couldn’t love. She never even hugged, and my father, although loving, was emotionally absent. I remember one time when I accidentally spilled a cup of hot tea on my father's bald head. Later I wondered if I was trying to get him to react. I'm sure it was an accident!? Of my four siblings, only two of us are affectionate--my sister Evelyn and myself. The others have a hard time displaying love, especially my brother.

Some people seem to be "All Love," like Sylvia, the dear friend I lost last May whom I wrote about in a previous blog. Sylvia loved everyone. I don't think I ever heard her say a bad word to or about anyone, ever! She was truly all love and showed it proudly. Yet there are those who have a hard time showing love or loving.

That got me wondering: What if we are all born with our own capacity to love? Some more, some less, like being gay, or being a happy person or a sad one. Maybe it’s part of our personalities, or our DNA. Perhaps we can't help ourselves. Alyssa's parents weren’t very demonstrative, yet she loved deeply although her brother Paul isn't very affectionate. Yes, my father was loving, so you can say that perhaps I got the capacity to love from him, but what about Evelyn, my sister? She was raised by my mother, who was a single parent from the time Evelyn was two until she was nine. Didn't see a lot of love there. Yet I know no one more loving then she, although it didn't rub off on my brother Nate.

So "What Is This Thing Called Love?" I think that we all love differently, for different reasons and to different degrees. Sometimes conditionally, sometimes not. Sometimes according to whom we are loving and for some, as best we can. We love friends one way, our children another, and our lovers yet another. We all want it, can't live without it. Some of us can't get enough of it. It hurts, feels good, confuses us. We even feel guilty about it! Some use it and some abuse it. Artists paint it; writers write about it, musicians make songs about it. It's in religion, science, psychology and philosophy.

If we think about all this and look at the people that we do love, it might answer a few questions about our own relationships. It might make us more accepting of the people that we do love, realizing that their capacity to love might be just different then our own, but that they love to the best of their ability, as do we. Not less than we need, not more, not too much, just what they/we can!

One thing for sure, love will never go way. It's here to stay. Like breathing. It’s essential!


This is the fourth time I rewrote this blog!

I Can't Wait!

I have been looking at fashion for the past several years wondering what direction it would take! I know fashion is a barometer of the times and tells the story of what people are thinking and feeling, so what if we aren't having wonderful thoughts and not feeling very inspired or fulfilled? Would we still be wearing torn jeans and clothes that looked like they were falling off us or we forgot to fasten them and stringy, dirty hair? I wondered whether style and elegance would ever return. I think it has and I'm delighted!

I was just looking at W magazine and for the first time in years, I LOVED it. I thought the clothes and layouts were gorgeous and so were the photos. So much so that I had to know who all the photographers were and if I was right in assuming who they might be. I also wanted to know who did the hair and makeup. I don't remember the last time I took the effort to investigate. This was not the only magazine that I was impressed with lately, but a great metaphor for what I feel is changing in fashion lately.

When things are bad, socially, we either look like "things are bad" or we go retro! Back to a "feel good" time. It never works to revisit the past. The past is just that and doesn't live in the now. We soon figure that out and then we look confused in our appearance. Funny how that works! We just can't escape looking like what is going on with us.

I think though, that we are doing something new this time. We are looking before we are being. Possibly because we are so stunned by the events of the now. Wars, economy, unemployment, the instability of the stock market, our governments, illness etc. It seems like we have lost control for so long. I believe that we are being proactive, if all around us is not working, the best that we can do for ourselves is take action and be what we want to be in order to enjoy what we can control. So in the here and now it starts with fashion. I so hope that the rest follows suit!

The clothes this fall are truly rich, imaginative and in short, GORGEOUS! There is construction in suits (something that seemed to be lost for so long), femininity in dresses, beautiful and new fabrics with a lot of color! Designers are truly being creative again. I used to think that we lost all the good designers to AIDS and their just weren't any new ones worth their salt (except for a few that bordered on insanity). Women this fall will look stylish!

Two summers ago, John and I went to Europe for a few weeks for his 40th. We went to London, Paris and Tuscany. When we were in Paris, I noticed that women looked like women everywhere. I never remember French women looking any less then "stunning" whenever I was in France. This time I couldn't find stunning. I was disappointed! I wanted to be inspired as I had always been when I was in France. I felt that the whole world had become homogenized.

Hair is styled! Yippie! I may be traditional (although no one has ever used that term in describing me), but I love "style"! I never really liked poker straight hair that did nothing. I had a hard time giving it to my clients. I found that my older clients were selling their souls for the illusion of youth in wearing styles that were intended for the young. I would still try to make hair move in one direction or another or turn the ends slightly just so it would have some style. I could never use waxes that made the hair look dirty. Dirty hair is just ugly! Can't convince me otherwise. Hair now has personality! You can be an individual, not just another fashion victim by choosing your look, length, color, volume, and style. When was the last time that you bought a new dress that needed or begged for you to style or cut your hair differently, if ever (if you're young enough to never have experienced this). Do you even know what a roller is? I can't wait to make waves again!!!

Eyelashes are in! Whether they are false, clusters, extensions or just enhancing mascara. I always believed that lashes were the most important part of a woman's beauty, after lips. I would tell my clients that mascara was more important than eye liner (I would see women with no mascara but plenty of eyeliner). Lashes give dimension to the face. They create a rhythm when a woman opens or closes her eyes (my daughter, Hana, insisted that we see "Eclipse" with her yesterday. Have you ever noticed Robert Pattenson's eyelashes? They are amazingly long and thick, making his eyes very expressive! I couldn't take my eyes of them (no pun intended). In fact if you'll notice, most of the actors in Eclipse have eyelashes that much attention has been paid to, making them look romantic, sexy and expressive.

Lips are matte again and dark! I remember the first time I was in Paris, I was sent there to see the designer shows and salons by Saks Fifth Avenue. I was style Director for the Bala Cynwyd Pennsylvania Beauty Salon. The hottest Hair salon at the time was Jean Louis David. So I spent a few hours there to see what was happening. The first thing that I noticed was that every woman was looking in the mirror applying red lipstick, no matter what their hair color was. I thought that they looked feminine and sexy. Not at all what American woman were doing at the time. There is nothing sexier then red lips! What more does a woman need but red luscious lips and long fluttering lashes? The rest is minimal.

So, gorgeous clothes, an expressive face and beautiful hair. I can't wait!

I'm Not Ungrateful!

I was raised by a mother who couldn't love, or if she did it felt more like pain. She just didn't have the capacity! She was the kind of woman everyone feared, especially her children. I was one of five, the second from the youngest. For seven years I was the baby, but that didn't mean anything when it came to getting more attention or love. I feared her more than anything. When she came home, she would keep the shoes she wore that day on the steps leading up to the second floor. If for some reason we pissed her off, we had to run from her to avoid her wrath. Sometimes that meant upstairs, and she would fling a shoe at you and hit you dead on. Never missed! If you ran into the dining room and around the dining table to get away from her, she would block your path with a chair, catch you and either slap you or, if she had the time to prepare, she would have my father’s belt in hand and whip you with it when she caught you. When she washed my face at night, it felt like she was removing it. When we got hurt, we would go to my father because he would be caring and gentle when dressing a wound. My mother would hold the wounded area so tightly that her touch hurt more then the wound.

I survived! But not without lots of support. Much of it came from psychiatrists I’d started seeing when I was sixteen or seventeen years old. I had asked my sister-in-law to help me find one, because I was in a lot of pain. I was conflicted about being gay; it just wasn't acceptable then. I thought that if I got help, I might be able to change. Even psychiatrists at that time thought that they could cure homosexuality.

Support came from some other members of my family too, like that sister-in-law I mentioned earlier, and my eldest sister, Evelyn, whom I adored and admired immensely. She was gorgeous and soooo loving. She did teach me at an early age that I could be loved and that I was lovable. She would take me special places like Fisher’s Restaurant. In those days it was a big deal for an eight-year-old to go to a place that served shrimp cocktail. She would buy me great clothes. She adored me! Still does to this day, even though she is certifiable! I am still grateful to her for all that she did for me then. Now, its almost impossible to have a relationship with her, she is so far gone. She is a seventy seven-year-old Born Again Minister of the Jewish faith. That says it all.

As for my sister-in-law, she was there when my brother couldn't be. He has difficulty having relationships with everyone, especially his own children. He is now eighty. My sister-in-law turned out to be very much like my mother. So as not to have two women in my life to torture me, I don't speak to her. My brother goes with the program at her demand. They have two children that they don't speak to from time to time (for years at a time).

Most of my support came from my clients. These were and are women who "were" nurturing! Many of them loved me. Others taught me, some took care of me. Most contributed to my life in ways that were unimaginable, and I am grateful!

When I was first starting out, at 14 or 15, I would go from door to door in the Northeast section of Philadelphia where I lived. I charged 25 cents to set, cut, color or do anything to women's hair that they would let me. There was one woman, Shirley, who owned a beauty supply store on the corner of a block close to my house. I would buy my supplies from her. I suppose she wondered what such a young person was doing buying so much stuff. When I told her what I did, she asked me to do her touchups (double process blonde) and set her hair every week. She never let me cut it, though. No one did in the beginning, except my sister-in-law. She was the first person to allow me to cut her hair. I was supposed to trim her long hair but she ended up with a short "bubble." Still, she never complained. Instead she claimed to love it. I still don't know to this day if she was telling the truth. Shirley had a brother, Harry Leiber, who at that time was a renowned hair stylist in the Cheltenham area of Philadelphia; I would later work for him, twice. She taught me a great deal about everything hair.

After about a year, right before I was sixteen, another wonderful woman, Lillian, took me under her wing. Lillian had a salon in the basement of her row home on Bustleton Avenue in the Northeast. She had heard about me and asked me to work for her after school Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. The salon was open late Thursday and Friday evenings. I got out of school by 3 pm, and could be at the beauty shop (it certainly wasn't a salon) by 3:30 or 4 on Thursdays and Fridays. I worked all day Saturday too. Lillian was a short, plump woman with very thin hair (you could clearly see her scalp). On Saturdays she would make me lunch in her kitchen upstairs, and gave me anything I wanted. She even fed me smoked sturgeon. She was so kind and caring.

There was another salon across the street, Bernie's, owned by Bernie Miller. He too had heard about me and made it impossible for me to stay at Lillian's by reporting me to the state board for not having a license. He had a teacher's license allowing him to send in hours for me so that I could get my license. I had no choice but to work for Bernie, so I did. I was sixteen. Bernie would book me every fifteen minutes so that I had to learn to be extremely fast.

I soon became the wunderkind of the neighborhood and developed a tremendous following. At first I worked the same hours that I did at Lillian's. I was making more money than my father was earning. Knowing that college was not an option (none of my siblings went to college) I decided to quit school and work full time. My mother was against this, but she agreed to it. And so I began to make real bucks. My clients adored me! They would bring me things, bake for me, make sure that I had lunch (at least the nice ones did) and invite me to their houses. Bernie and his wife would have me over all the time.

Bernie's wife was gorgeous! It was his third marriage, her second. She had a 6-year-old son by her first marriage that Bernie called "Pecker Checker!" I liked her a lot, despite the fact that she was so self-involved she couldn't stop looking in the mirror. She didn't give me much more than compliments on the way I did her hair, but she preferred that I did it over the rest of the staff. For Bernie, I was a meal ticket. Revenue! I have no idea whether he liked me or not.

One of their friends, Bea, was an attractive blonde with thin hair who became my client when she heard of my reputation. She was graceful and kind with a gentile voice. I painted oils at that time, and I had painted a 12"x 50" relief of a skyline. She bought it from me and hung it over her fireplace. She too would make me lunch, invite me to her house, and include me in family events.

At nineteen I had my own apartment in the Northeast and went to work for Harry Leiber. I had worked for him when I was fifteen for two weeks as an assistant when his sister, Shirley, told him about me. At that time, I was so fascinated by what I was learning by watching every stylist in his salon that I didn't assist at all, so I was fired. He was a funny-looking man. Silver hair, very short, very skinny but with a pot belly. He always had a cigar in his mouth. His wife, Lillian, was the receptionist at the salon, and she applied hair color to some clients. She too was strange-looking: platinum blonde with black eyeliner that looked like she added more each day to what she had on the day before. She and Harry would invite me to their house every Friday night for dinner, or we would go out to a restaurant, and they would treat. I was the top producer in their salon so I felt that their generosity was insincere. Again, just another meal ticket.

It was the clients who really cared. I had one client who would bring me a new word to learn each week. She wanted to make sure that my vocabulary was up to par. Others brought me things, taught me about books, suggested reading material, discussed politics and much, much more.

I left Harry Leiber, moved to a salon on the Main Line, got married and had Seth, my son. When Seth was born, the gifts were overwhelming! Clients were delighted for me. It was as if a member of their own family had this event happen to them. They would invite me to their children's weddings, bar mitzvahs, and bat mitzvahs. Several offered me their vacation homes. One vacation home came with a boat and captain.

These women and men have taught me how to be generous, kind, caring and have made me more intelligent, thoughtful, loving and trusting. I could never repay their generosity in several lifetimes. I'm grateful!

*Ancedote*

I wrote this blog on July 4th, 2010 and sent it to my friend, Janet Teacher to be edited. I didn't realize that she had edited it and was waiting for the edited edition. I recieived this letter with the picture at the top of this blog on Wednesday, July 7th. Bea had no idea that I was writing about her. I hadn't seen her in 46 years. I'm having lunch with her ASAP!!!!!.

Dear Maurice:

I came across this picture of a collage done by you when you were 16 years old. It has been hanging over my fireplace ever since I convinced you to give it to me. It makes me think of you many times during the day when I happen to pass by our fireplace. It brings me joy every time I look at it. When I think of how long ago it was, its hard to believe. You have gone on to become famous and I am now 82 years old. But when I remember the days when you did my hair, I smile. I hope you are happy in your success and maybe someday our paths will cross. I always think fondly of you. You were special even at 16 years old.

With affection,

Bea Gordon

Jerseylicious?

My staff was ranting about the TV show Jerseylicious, so naturally I was curious to see what all the hype was about. I had never tuned in when the show was on live, so I YouTubed it and viewed some outtakes. I was not as horrified as I thought I would be, but then last night I got to see the entire show. I can’t tell you how embarrassing it is to have one’s profession portrayed in such a way.

When I was younger, I was ashamed to tell anyone that I was a hairstylist because of the stereotype that went with the job. When asked to list my profession, I would write something like “Artist” or “Professional.” Never was I going to reveal that I was a hairstylist. Then finally, when I developed enough self-confidence to realize that I was an intelligent being, and that even a hairstylist could be admirable, I confessed. I think it was around the time I opened OMG.

I was not willing to compromise my integrity and hire those embarrassing hairstylist types if I didn’t have to. But I did! I hired weirdos like Joseph Ferrere, I guess because I was either desperate or thought that I might be able to teach them some dignity. But I was wrong! They are who they are. And the clients who go to them go for the same reason that they watch Jerseylicious--because it’s weird and vulgar! Those getups they wear on the show are too much!

I have to admit that sometimes my own staff dress in ways that make me wonder, but for the most part they are fashionable if not creative in their attire and sometimes even rather conservative. And then there is me. I’m a slob! So I dress in disposable clothing that I buy at Gap on sale or at Old Navy. But I do believe that I am somewhat fashionable and not vulgar in my attire. I may wear a lot of jewelry, but then that’s “fashionable” right now for men. I’ve observed that as women get older, they too tend to wear more jewelry, like larger diamonds, so maybe that’s my answer to the mid-life crisis. I guess it detracts from the wrinkles.

But let’s get back to Jerseylicious. Gayle is the epitome of what I discussed in my first blog: the woman who’s over 60 with hair that is too long, and who’s trying to compete with her own daughter. My advice for her is “Cut that fuckin’ hair! Get some style! After all, that is what you are supposed to represent.” Style!!! Clearly, it’s something that none of the show’s cast knows anything about. They all look like hookers! Not one of them is fashionable, well put together, or frankly, even acceptable. I wouldn’t use any of them as a stylist unless I wanted to work the streets. And I can’t imagine who would go to this salon and patronize these hairdressers (notice that I refer to them as “hairdressers,” not “hair stylists.” Calling them stylists would be giving all of them more credit then they deserve).

I have often wondered why my profession attracts this type of person. At first, I thought it was because they weren’t smart enough to get into college and in most cases barely graduated high school (me included). So they get a student loan and go to “hairdressing school” (as they call it) and hope to make a living. But I think there may be more to it than that. I think it may be the chemicals that we work with.

The newest salon product under suspicion is the keratin treatment. (How can a chemical process be a “treatment?”) When these products were first introduced, they were said to be a combination of keratin and formaldehyde. Naturally, there was concern that formaldehyde, being a known carcinogen, made the process dangerous. So companies sought to reformulate the products to exclude formaldehyde. One such company, De Pasqual, claimed that its formulation didn’t contain formaldehyde, so I sent two of my stylists to be trained in the process. The next day I asked how it went and they said it was good. But during our conversation, I mentioned the suspect ingredient and one of my stylists said that it contained no formaldehyde. Instead it contained a formaldehyde derivative called “Amaldehyde.” Take off the “F” and it’s no longer carcinogenic? Bullshit!

So we went looking for any other product that would eliminate formaldehyde, as we were losing money by failing to offer this treatment, which had become one of the biggest moneymaking services at other salons.

The company that makes some of the hair color we use at OMG made just such a product. On the front of the box it proclaimed that there was “Zero formaldehyde.” But being a skeptic, I asked Jenni to call the company and get a list of all the ingredients in the product. All of it seemed okay except for two chemicals that were foreign to us: Methylchloroisothiazolinone http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Methylchloroisothiazolinone and Methylisothiazolinone http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Methylisothiazolinone. The first has been shown to cause neurological damage in rats, and the second is suspected of being a carcinogen.

I guess that explains why we don’t do these processes at OMG, but I think I’ve finally figured out why some people in my profession behave in ways that make me cringe. It’s the chemicals! I guess after years of handling these toxic substances, some of these stylists must have neurological damage, or something.

Camel Toe

Last Saturday was a warm spring day, and a client who comes every week for a blow dry with one of my most creative and successful stylists arrived wearing short shorts. This woman is trim and usually quite well dressed. Another client pointed her out to me, remarking on what happened when the woman sat down. Her shorts got even shorter, her Hadassah thighs spread, and she looked like she wasn’t wearing shorts at all. I wondered whether all the mirrors in her house were from her waist up. How could she not know that her legs in those shorts would completely destroy her total appearance and actually make her look vulgar? Although her calves were not svelte, they would pass in a skirt or shorts that were longer, at least to the knee.

And if that wasn't enough, this woman has a voice that carries! I mean CARRIES!!! The pitch could break glass, and she isn't subtle about her conversations either. Once she was on her cell phone the entire time she was in the salon, including while she was getting washed, and continuing as she was blown out. Didn't miss a beat! Can you imagine how loud she needed to speak when the water was running and her head was in the sink? Not to mention that her phone could have been ruined. (I would have accidentally soaked it just to get her to shut up.) And then she continued talking with a blow dryer in her ear, but never changed her pitch. Everyone could hear every word she was saying. Another client was going to tell her how rude she was, but I intervened and calmed her down (although I really didn’t want to stop her). This woman holds a very important position in the community. Can you imagine?

Don't women (and men) see themselves? Don't they know that they have strengths and weaknesses in their appearance and their personas? That we can be just as unattractive as attractive in both the way we dress and our behavior? What about those women who are "fleshy" and insist on wearing spandex so that they actually look naked, leaving nothing to the imagination? Gross! Wouldn't a dress or loose slacks and a top be just as comfortable, if not more so? I had a housekeeper who was, let's say, a bit more then Rubenesque. All she wore were clothes that were too tight for her, like she grew out of them two sizes ago. I think that she thought that she looked "sexy." (But why would you want to look sexy cleaning a house anyway?) I remember that one day she had zippered pockets at the breasts of her jumpsuit and they hung where her nipples would be. I thought they were tassels! I was ready to ask her not to wear that jumpsuit again as my daughter might get the wrong idea.

What about those women with camel toes? What's that about? Do they think that it's an attractive look, like a cleavage? Do they think men are going to get turned on by seeing the actual shape of a vagina? And it’s almost always on a woman who is overweight or unattractive. Maybe that’s why they do it--they have nothing to lose. Isn't that uncomfortable anyway? If my balls were being squashed like that I think I would be quite uncomfortable, as well as embarrassed.

Nobody is perfect, but why flaunt the negatives? I was about twelve to fifteen pounds overweight a few months ago and I would wear my shirttails out or a sweater that covered my love handles or gut. When I got dressed, I would try on something that might have fit when I was at my best weight and immediately take it off when I saw how bad I looked. I don't think I'm vain--I just think I have enough self-pride to know when I look good or not.

It really doesn't take much to look in a mirror and take off what doesn't work. Then again, make sure that you show off your best features. Got breasts, show em off. I don't mean take them out, but wear something that enhances them. Got legs, let's see. Legs always look good in heels but heels aren't appropriate for all occasions. I have a client who has great gams (or at least did when she was younger) so all she wore were heels. Heels with skirts, with shorts, with a bathing suit and I'm sure when she was getting dressed, before she even put on her underwear, she put on her heels. As she got older, her ass got bigger, her skirts got shorter and her heels got higher. If she bent over to put down her handbag, she ran the risk of her ass hanging out from under her skirt. Now that’s a bit excessive! Again, where are the mirrors in her house? Nice ass, flaunt it! In pants or a skirt I mean, not naked, or not pants or a skirt that are too tight. That becomes vulgar and again, can lead to "Camel Toe."

Don't hide behind your clothes. They are intended to make you look attractive. Wear what works and get rid of what doesn't. There is nothing more attractive than not showing the whole thing. Teasing! That’s what low-cut, a side slit in a skirt, a plunging neckline or back is all about. Did you ever go to a nude beach? Not the prettiest sight, is it? Most of the people on nude beaches shouldn't be there. But then again, that’s another consciousness.

Sylvia

From left to right: Myself, John, and Sylvia

Sylvia had been a client of mine for 41 years. Sylvia was special! So much so, that most of my clients knew her or at least knew of her. If I made a move, most of my clients were more concerned about whether it was convenient for Sylvia than for themselves. She had a following, a fan club. Whatever it was, she was famous among my clientele. People loved to talk to her. She made everyone feel special, loved and happy. She always commented on women's clothes, hair or makeup, and especially on their breasts, if they had nice ones. She loved breasts! She was never afraid to fondle another woman's breasts. She would sort of ask first before squeezing, but not really wait for a response, as she might get a no! Not what she wanted to hear. I mean, she would be gentle (after all, being a woman she knew how to fondle a breast). So, she would ask, "Mind if I touch them?” and before the word 'touch' crossed her lips, her hands were all over them. No one seemed to mind. After all, it was Sylvia!

The first time I met Sylvia, I was working as style director at Saks Fifth Avenue Beauty Salon in Bala Cynwyd, PA. There was a smart looking woman having a manicure in a hair drying chair near me, and she summoned me with her crooked finger. Usually, I would reject this kind of demand, but something about this woman made me respond. I sat in the dryer chair next to hers and she said, "I'm Sylvia, and I'm wearing a hairpiece. Do you think that you can do this? Elliot does my hair." (Elliot was a well respected hair stylist in the Main Line area of PA at that time). I said, "Of course!" so she booked an appointment with me the next week, and the rest was history, as they say.

Sylvia never missed a week, mostly because she was in need of me more than any other woman that I did, due to her extremely thin hair. She would say, “It's a curse!" But then she would say, "What can I do?" She never accepted it, but she made the best of it.

I remember one time when I had opened my salon in Center City, Philly, Sylvia was afraid to drive on the expressway (can't blame her, as it is a little scary). Her brother would bring her for her appointments. One day, when she was ready to leave, my assistant came over to her, kneeled down and whispered, "Sylvia, your driver is here." Her response was, "Say it louder!"

She was like a Jewish mother to me, always proud of my achievements, but they were never quite good enough! After all, Allen Gold had a bigger salon than I did! Not good enough! "You should have been rich by now! Why do you have to travel and do the things you do? Why don't you save your money?” She truly loved me, as I did her. I wasn't blessed with the most loving and caring mother (years on a psychiatrist's couch, and stories for another time), but I was blessed with Sylvia!

She had two hair pieces at all times. One that was on her head and one that was in the salon to be groomed for the next Saturday morning when she arrived. My protégés' were all trained on Sylvia's hair pieces. One time, one of my assistants washed the hair piece that she would be wearing that week and wrapped it in a towel. The towel got picked up, thrown into the washer, and need I say what it looked like when the cycle was over. We spent hours combing out the mats. But we never told Sylvia. She just thought that that hair piece seemed a “little dry” for a few weeks (it took a few times to condition it back into shape).

Her 90th birthday was a blast. Everyone wanted to roast Sylvia! And roast they did. But the overall consensus amongst the guests was that Sylvia was unconditionally loving. She was going blind by then (macular degeneration), but you would never know it! I think I was doing her makeup when she came in every Saturday by that time. She would not wash her face till Tuesday or Wednesday just so she could stay looking good. Shortly after that, Sylvia would grasp for words. She seemed unable to finish sentences, or she'd get lost in a thought. Since she couldn't see when someone would say hello to her, she would summon me to come closer with that very same finger that she used the day we met. I would kneel down, and she would whisper, "Who's that?" being sure to say hello and to make sure that no one really knew how bad her eyesight was.

Then, there were caretakers. They would bring and take her. Some kind and good, and some that left her to us and had a cell phone in their ear the whole time they were there. One time, one with a cell phone brought her in, and I noticed that Sylvia's shoes were on the wrong feet. It pissed me off so bad that I called Linda, her daughter, and vowed to report anything to Linda that I didn't like. We finally got her three wonderful women that cared for her and truly loved her as she did them.

Last October, was the last time I saw Sylvia. She stopped coming. I guessed it either didn't matter to her anymore, or it was just too difficult. In November, I called her and she was as cordial as could be, but I knew that she really didn't know who I was. I would call a few more times, not to talk to her, but to Vanessa, one of her caretakers that had worked for us, just to find out how she was doing. Her spirits were good always, even if her health wasn't. I made arrangements to pay her a visit one Thursday. Figured I'd bring lunch. I called Vanessa to find out what time would be best, and she told me that Sylvia had had a bad night, and she didn't think that it would be a good time for me to come. Even though I had cleared my day, I understood.

I was sitting in a box at the Devon Horse Show this past Memorial Day and realized that I had a message. I played it back and only heard, "Linda," and, "Mother died," and knew what I was going to hear when I could listen to the whole message. I wasn't surprised. I was glad for Sylvia that it was over for her. I knew more then anything Sylvia's dignity was the thing that she cherished most after her kids, grandkids, great-grandkids and of course, me. That's why it was ok for her to stop getting her hair done. Losing her dignity was just unacceptable! Eyesight was one thing. But one's dignity? Not!!!!! Even though I had lost Sylvia in October, I am still saddened. After all, I did love her unconditionally!

One time, when "cell phone care taker" was caring for Sylvia, John and I were afraid that she wasn't eating properly and decided to bring her dinner. We arrived, Sylvia came out from her bedroom wearing a velour sweatsuit. She had put rollers in her hair. She propped herself on the edge of the couch with her back as straight as it could be and entertained us until we left. It was painful to watch her try to remember what she was trying to say, but she never let down her guard! She never lost her dignity! She was ninety four.

I love you Sylvia, and always will! XOXO

Embrace Your Age... at Any Age.

Take notice ladies who are trying a bit too hard to recapture your youth, this beautiful woman is the epitome of style and grace.

I have been talking about writing a book now for a few years. With over forty seven years in the beauty business as a make-up and hair stylist for all sorts of celebrities, socialites and just ordinary women, I have so many stories to tell!! I've started the book several times and never really made the commitment to see it through. Now with everyone blogging, and because I am trendy, I thought I might try my voice at this and see what comes of it. Certainly it's less of a commitment and saves me the embarrassment of people hating what I write.

So here goes:
There is so much to say, I have so many opinions about so many things; I guess I'm just judgmental and critical! That said; let's talk about long hair on women that are in their 60’s and 70's. Not a good thing. At least not past their shoulders! I don't care how many face lifts you have had and how young you feel, look, or want to look, you’re still a grandmother. Speaking of grandmothers, early in my career, I had a client, Mrs. Weinberger. Her son-in-law was a plastic surgeon. She always wore fishnet stockings (they were fashionable at the time) and mini skirts. I would guess that she was in her seventies. From 30 feet away she looked 35, but as she grew closer, with every step she gained ten years, Shocking! A perfect example of trying too hard. There comes a time when you should stop trying to compete with 20 year old girls, give your daughter her space and the right to be prettier then you. You had your chance, enjoyed it, now move on! There is nothing more beautiful then an elegant woman that has the self confidence to accept her age with grace and dignity. I remember when I was in my twenties and went to Paris for the first time. My wife and I, you read me right, yes, I was married once to a very beautiful and wonderful woman, Linda. That’s how I have a son, Seth. But anyhow, we went to the restaurant Benoit, an Alain Ducasse restaurant. In walked an older woman: blond hair, red lips (Why do French women have the courage to wear red lipstick and American women don't?). Dressed elegantly, she made an entrance with just her dignity and grace. She didn't have to be young, she didn't need long hair, she knew who she was and was proud of it. She was greeted warmly by everyone, even more-so then some of the more attractive women in the room. I was truly enlightened by that experience. I became aware that a woman's age doesn’t make her beautiful or not. It's her manner, the way she feels about herself. Shoulder-length hair isn't going to give you self-confidence. Neither will a face lift (well a face lift might if you’re not happy with what you see in the mirror). I'm sure all of you have had similar experiences, noticing a woman entering a room, and although she may not be young, or even beautiful, there is something about her that is just captivating, unique, and elegant, in just her manner. As we get older, it's even more important to strive for that bit of self-confidence. All the surgery, long hair, even diamonds, just won’t do it. Speaking of diamonds, aren't they just beautiful? Love them! Love those big solitaires! I like to see a woman wearing diamonds, even during the day. John and I were in Como, Italy at Villa Serbelloni sitting on the veranda having a drink with a couple that we just met that happened to be from Malvern, Pa. (what a coincidence!) when the glass doors opened and out swirled a beautiful woman, most likely in her late twenties, long wet blond hair, bare feet, wearing a black ball gown, no make-up (she didn't need any) and a diamond necklace. Perfect! Sometimes that’s all you need.