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Authors: Elisa Lorello
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like. The giddy anticipation I’d takenwith me on the train last night and awakened with this morning had washed down the drain along with theshampoo.
Luc spun the chair around so that I couldn’t see my reflection and began to blow-dry and style myhair. After some last-minute touches—smoothing out pieces with a texturizing product, checking forevenness, a random snip here and there—my friends’ eyes went wide and their mouths opened in surpriseand admiration.
“You. Look. Hot , Sunny,” said Georgie.
“Doesn’t she, though?” said Luc.
“You really do,” added Theo. “You look ten years younger too.”
Luc beamed proudly. But for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to accept it as anything more than them fulfilling their obligation as my friends to buck me up. After all, one little haircut wasn’t going to change the facts that Luc had put front and center: that I was divorced, alone, unpublished, dead-ended, and forty.
Luc turned out to be not only my hairstylist but also my makeup artist. He complimented me on my bone structure (he’d complimented Theo on her bone structure too, so I was hoping for something more original—like nice lips or something) and recommended I try a mix of earthy and neutral colors. He worked in silence this time, applying hues of plums and maples and golds, each brushstroke and pencil line against my skin feeling delicate and soft.
When he was finished, he spun the chair back around, and I met my reflection.
Wow.
Holy shit.
My hair had been transformed from a dull, gray-ash brown to a warm, caramel hue with shimmeryhighlights. He’d taken off four inches (“Good-bye, ponytail,” he said with enthusiasm) and shaped mytresses into a layered pixie with long bangs and wispy pieces framing my face. Between the absence ofgray and the hiding of forehead frown lines, I was looking back in time at a younger, wiser version ofmyself. Moreover, the precision of each line and shade and highlight and contour was such that younoticed my features, not the makeup. My cheekbones were visible, accentuated with just a touch of bronzein the blush. My eyes looked stunning, awake, and radiant. My nose looked almost dainty, as shapely asnoses can be. My lips looked round and full and inviting.
I hadn’t looked this good on my wedding day.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you were the Miracle Worker.” I rose from the chair andhugged him after I finished gawking at myself in the mirror. Somehow my reflection managed to make meforget every bad feeling I’d had only moments ago.
“Thanks, beautiful. You made it easy,” he said.
I turned to Georgie and Theo and struck a pose. “What do you think?”
“I think you need a photo shoot in Central Park,” said Georgie.
“Excellent idea,” said Luc.
I walked out of the salon with chic bags of shampoo and conditioner, texturizer, two tubes oflipstick, and a makeup primer, totaling somewhere around $250.
We went clothes and shoe shopping next, grabbing hot pretzels along the way. Georgie and Theocould’ve easily quit their jobs and opened a personal shopper business in Manhattan. They handed megarment after garment in the fitting room, threatening to steal my original clothes, leave me in the fittingroom, and not come back if I peeked at a price tag. They also made me try on every pair of Jimmy Choos,but I just couldn’t justify the price. I did, however, splurge on a pair of taupe, butter-soft suede Nine Westboots, versatile and sexy and comfortable all at the same time, and a pair of purple, faux-alligator-skin,three-inch pumps on clearance. I could start saving money after my birthday festivities, I decided.
By the time we returned to the hotel to change and freshen up, my wardrobe had increased by apair of designer jeans, a “date dress,” a low-cut blouse with a floral print, a flowing cashmere cardigan, a Nine West handbag to go with the shoes, matching costume turquoise earrings and necklace, and
Luc spun the chair around so that I couldn’t see my reflection and began to blow-dry and style myhair. After some last-minute touches—smoothing out pieces with a texturizing product, checking forevenness, a random snip here and there—my friends’ eyes went wide and their mouths opened in surpriseand admiration.
“You. Look. Hot , Sunny,” said Georgie.
“Doesn’t she, though?” said Luc.
“You really do,” added Theo. “You look ten years younger too.”
Luc beamed proudly. But for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to accept it as anything more than them fulfilling their obligation as my friends to buck me up. After all, one little haircut wasn’t going to change the facts that Luc had put front and center: that I was divorced, alone, unpublished, dead-ended, and forty.
Luc turned out to be not only my hairstylist but also my makeup artist. He complimented me on my bone structure (he’d complimented Theo on her bone structure too, so I was hoping for something more original—like nice lips or something) and recommended I try a mix of earthy and neutral colors. He worked in silence this time, applying hues of plums and maples and golds, each brushstroke and pencil line against my skin feeling delicate and soft.
When he was finished, he spun the chair back around, and I met my reflection.
Wow.
Holy shit.
My hair had been transformed from a dull, gray-ash brown to a warm, caramel hue with shimmeryhighlights. He’d taken off four inches (“Good-bye, ponytail,” he said with enthusiasm) and shaped mytresses into a layered pixie with long bangs and wispy pieces framing my face. Between the absence ofgray and the hiding of forehead frown lines, I was looking back in time at a younger, wiser version ofmyself. Moreover, the precision of each line and shade and highlight and contour was such that younoticed my features, not the makeup. My cheekbones were visible, accentuated with just a touch of bronzein the blush. My eyes looked stunning, awake, and radiant. My nose looked almost dainty, as shapely asnoses can be. My lips looked round and full and inviting.
I hadn’t looked this good on my wedding day.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you were the Miracle Worker.” I rose from the chair andhugged him after I finished gawking at myself in the mirror. Somehow my reflection managed to make meforget every bad feeling I’d had only moments ago.
“Thanks, beautiful. You made it easy,” he said.
I turned to Georgie and Theo and struck a pose. “What do you think?”
“I think you need a photo shoot in Central Park,” said Georgie.
“Excellent idea,” said Luc.
I walked out of the salon with chic bags of shampoo and conditioner, texturizer, two tubes oflipstick, and a makeup primer, totaling somewhere around $250.
We went clothes and shoe shopping next, grabbing hot pretzels along the way. Georgie and Theocould’ve easily quit their jobs and opened a personal shopper business in Manhattan. They handed megarment after garment in the fitting room, threatening to steal my original clothes, leave me in the fittingroom, and not come back if I peeked at a price tag. They also made me try on every pair of Jimmy Choos,but I just couldn’t justify the price. I did, however, splurge on a pair of taupe, butter-soft suede Nine Westboots, versatile and sexy and comfortable all at the same time, and a pair of purple, faux-alligator-skin,three-inch pumps on clearance. I could start saving money after my birthday festivities, I decided.
By the time we returned to the hotel to change and freshen up, my wardrobe had increased by apair of designer jeans, a “date dress,” a low-cut blouse with a floral print, a flowing cashmere cardigan, a Nine West handbag to go with the shoes, matching costume turquoise earrings and necklace, and
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