Archive for the ‘Hair’ Category

TGIF, my lovelies.

For those of you who live in NYC – and have a little lady with long locks underfoot – you might want to carve out some time on Sunday afternoon to learn how to create this adorable heart-shaped braid, courtesy of Cozy’s Cuts for Kids.

But fret not, all ye who reside elsewhere: A little closer to Valentine’s Day, I’ll be back with a chit-chat with Cozy herself – and step-by-step directions for this crazy-cute hairstyle.

Trust me, no one needs a lesson – or Cozy’s great kid’s detangling and styling tips – more than French braid-challenged Momover Lady. Bon weekend.

Tomorrow I’m having lunch with my new writer pal Julia Somewhere In Transition Barclay. (Someday I’ll stop referring to her as Julia Somewhere In Transition Barclay, but for now, she’s Julia Somewhere In Transition Barclay.) And I intend to bring her a goodie bag stuffed with beautifiers.

Not that she needs them; this isn’t an indictment of her looks, which are lovely.

Rather, it’s that thing we gals do. We gift. Or, in my case, we re-gift from the cavernous recesses of our Beauty Armoires.

Because she and I don’t know each other that well yet, I only have the most fleeting cues to go by: She has long hair. It’s blonde. She doesn’t wear oodles of makeup, but I’m sure she’d appreciate one or two items along those lines. And skincare.

Yes, I know; it’s a little weird for one woman to give another woman skincare. But since Julia Somewhere In Transition Barclay and I are exactly the same age (whatever, I’m a few months older), I have a sneaking suspicion what some of her complexion concerns might be.

So right now, I’m going on a fishing expedition. When I return, I’ll report on what I nabbed for her.

Okay, I’m back. And I’ve collected:

1. Aveda Damage Remedy Restructuring Conditioner

2. Comfort Zone Renight Recover Cream

3. Tata Harper Restorative Eye Creme

4. Caudalie Vinosource Quenching Sorbet-Crème

5. Murad Eye Lift Illuminator

6. Shea Moisture Organic Raw Shea Butter Soap

And a…

7. Set of Sonia Kashuk makeup brushes, kinda like this one

There, I think she’ll like all that. And it won’t be too taxing to lug all that into the office for her. Yay. A win-win, as they say.

I have a problem with beauty compliance. AKA stick-to-it-ive-ness. AKA ADD. AKA I get super-excited about some new potion or gadget, use it for a spell and then wander off, only to get super-excited about some other new potion or gadget. In that regard, I’m like a two-year-old confronted with a pile of shiny toys.

With entire categories of beautifiers, this compliance stuff doesn’t matter. Like, say, with makeup. If you’re using a particular blush one week, and then switch gears to another brand, or formula or shade, the Earth will not stop turning on its axis. Really. It won’t.

But if you’re itching to solve an actual beauty dilemma – e.g., brown spots or frizziness or thyroid-induced bald patches in your brows (grrr times a million) – you kinda gotta stick with the program.

First, of course, you need the program. That’s why, last Monday, after I blogged about the wonders of matte bronzing powder, I moved “Find That Damn Missing neuveauBrow” to the top of my Beauty To Do List.

And after a lengthy search, I finally fished it out of my Beauty Armoire, along with its kissing cousin, neuLash.

It’s at this point in the blog post that I’m supposed to tell you that these were given to me for free, right? I sort of don’t get that whole “I didn’t pay for this” scenario, because I certainly never felt any such disclosure obligations as a magazine editor. But whatever, Momover Lady is perfectly happy to move into the 21st century, kicking and screaming. Besides, I spend tons of cash-money on beauty products and services, so it’s not like there’s never any shortage of stuff to write about that I did pay for.

Wait – is “for” a preposition? And am I therefore, grammatically speaking, not supposed to end a sentence with it? Sheesh. I’m a mess. First I get a bunch of free beauty products, and then I have the audacity to end a sentence with “for.” And looky there, I just did it again.

Okay, so back to these two baldness-eradicators, and where compliance fits into the mix. Of course now I can’t find the brochure that came with the neuveauBrow (where is Iris, my Clutter Whisperer, when I need her?), so I was forced to visit the website to find out how long I might need to keep at it before I start seeing some bald-patch fill-in action. Thankfully, the site has info on both products – lash and brow – so it was essentially one-stop info shopping.

So here’s what I learned:

1. In the testimonials section, Anne from Florida, age 60, is a happy, bushy-browed camper. And Daniele’s endless lashes are distracting her co-workers to such a degree that several corporate projects have now been derailed. (I embellished a bit on the end there, but Daniele is distracting her co-workers. She said so herself.)

2. Results for neuveauBrow can be seen “in as little as four weeks.” For neuLash, get set to distract your own co-workers in approximately 30 days. Hey, four weeks and “approximately 30 days” are basically the same! Close call. But at least this admitted math moron caught her mistake before she hit “publish” on this blog post.

3. Ouch, they’re quite spendy. For a 60-day supply, the neauveauBrow is $100 and the neuLash will set you back $85.

That’s actually a lot of dough. So I really need to stay the course and report back honestly to you Momoverettes about whether I think they’re working. So far, I’m eight days in with both of them. And while I thought I saw some regrowth on my “problem brow,” it was just a mirage (or wishful thinking.) Hold on, if you’re a thirsty camel in the desert, a mirage is wishful thinking.

Feeling very bubble-headed this morning. Bubble-headed and bald-patchy.

Between swimming lessons at day camp and our weekend treks to the town pool, the Wee Lass has been immersed in chlorine at least five times a week this summer.

This state of affairs has its plusses and minuses.

On one hand, she has mad skills now, which I’m thrilled about, and tons of confidence when she barrels off the diving board.

But on the other hand, her hair is a dried-out, scary-snarled rat’s nest. And no amount of No More Tangles (the shampoo+conditioner, the leave-in, the this, the that) is putting a dent in that mess. It’s driving us both nutsy, so when I fetch her from camp this afternoon, we’re headed straight to the hair salon to have several inches whacked.

Yes, I know about all the special swimmer shampoos. But if you saw my Beauty Armoire, and my bathroom cabinets, you’d hardly be urging me to rush out to Duane Reade to add to our stash.

Once I started obsessing about the effect of chlorine on my tot-lette’s locks, I immediately segued to obsessing about the effect of chlorine on the rest of her. And me, too. And let’s not forget dear Hubby. And the entire pool-loving universe, while I’m at it.

And okay, OMG. I just did a very quick, cursory scour of the World Wide Interweb, and I’m officially paranoid. I can’t begin to do this topic justice right now, in a blog post, because I have the Wee Lass’s playspace turned on its a– , organizing per the stellar advice of my current Mama Guru, Barbara Reich.

Plus, it’s the height of bad journalism to just sort of state that some insanely prevalent chemical – hello, most of us drink, bathe and brush our fangs with chlorinated H20 – is hammering our health to the nth degree without saying why, and what to do about it.

But I think chlorine is hammering our health to the nth degree. Crummy, snarled hair is the least of it. I need to investigate. Grrr.

As the pic here illustrates, there’s fierce and incredible puffy hair. And then there’s the kind of puffy hair I have, which is neither fierce nor incredible. Trust me -  if I looked like this broad, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

But I don’t. So we are.

I’ll say this for not working: It’s pretty fantastic for keeping up with your beauty maintenance. Nary a week goes by when I’m not doing a little low-level primping. And because it’s my béte noire – the weak link in my hot-mama chain – my hair receives the bulk of the maintenance love.

That’s why I toodled off to the Ouidad Salon late last week for a deep conditioning treatment. I’ve known Ouidad for eons, and recently had the chance to re-connect and interview her for a few stories I was writing. She’s funny, very cut-to-the-chase, and completely, utterly and totally besotted with curly and textured hair.

According to Ouidad, a hefty chunk of the population has textured hair – myself included. Translation: It isn’t stick-straight, and has some type of wave or curl pattern. Thus, she’s made it her life’s work to help us fight the frizz and coax the luster out. And a big part of that is education. (That’s why there are more than 100 Ouidad-certified salons dotting the country.) You need know-how; winging it ain’t gonna win you any beauty contests.

Counter-intuitively, in super-humid weather (meaning Gotham in August), frizz-prone tresses need moisture to calm the —k down. And that’s how I came to be slathered in a thick paste and parked under one of those old lady-style bonnet hairdryers last week.

But first came my pre-treatment consultation with Mirsada, who is Ouidad’s right hand and has lovely SJP-ish curly / beachy blonde locks.

“How often do you shampoo your hair each week?” Mirsada asked, as she scanned the new-client questionnaire I’d just filled out.

“Four? Five times? I work out a lot,” I replied.

“Very, very, very bad,” responded Mirsada. “Very.”

Ooh, four verys – one for each shampoo of the week, I suspect. Here’s the thing: Frizz-prone hair is dry. And when you wash it a lot, as I do, it just gets drier. And frizzier. A vicious circle indeed.

Okay, I’m staring down a whole mess o’ household chores that I need to get to, so I’ll just CliffsNotes what I learned from Mirsada:

1. Rinsing and conditioning is a perfectly good alternative to shampooing your hair to smithereens. Yes, even if it’s 100 degrees outside and you just huffed and puffed and bitched and moaned your way through a grueling round of P90X.

2. Gel is a frizzy gal’s BFF. But this is a two-parter:

A) Apply it in sections, maybe even using those long salon clips, and don’t just glob it on. You’ll have a lot more control that way.

B) If you don’t like “defined” curls, you can cut some of that crunchiness with serum. Just make sure your gelled hair is completely dry first before applying serum. And only use a drop or two. A little dab’ll do ya.

To learn more about curly and textured hair, hightail it on over to Ouidad’s info-laden website.

Recently, on behalf of Cosmetic Executive Women, I had the good fortune to interview several brills ladies who are running some of the biggest beauty brands around. Intimidating, yes – they’re firing on all cylinders in a brutally competitive business. But what a treat. I learned so much from chatting with them.

And one of my interview victims, who happens to be the U.S. president of the much-beloved Kérastase line, sent me packing with a fat bag of Chroma Riche products. Ultra-hydrating, they’re specifically formulated for colored locks like mine.

If only…I knew how to use them. Because now, more than ever, I really need them. After I don’t know how many years of straight-up single-process blonde, I decided to throw highlights into the mix on Friday. And already, I can tell that my hair is going to be much more dried-out.

So I’m determined to figure out the exact sequence of my new Chroma Riche regime. What’s the big deal, you ask? Well, for starters, I was gifted with both a shampoo and a Cleansing Balm. And now, in reading the website, I see that I’m supposed to use the Cleansing Balm for the first three washings post-color.

Oops! I already used the shampoo this morning. But of course it’s really high-quality Frenchy French stuff, so it’s not like I dumped a box of Tide over my head.

Actually, this website is really helpful! Who knew? There are three basic steps with Chroma Riche: Cleanse, Treat and Protect. I’ve got the cleansing thang firmly under control. So all I need to do now is dig into my trusty stash of loot and figure out which are the Treaters and which are the Protecters.

I can do this. I am a brave, smart, highlighted and single-processed Mommy Person.

At some point during Road Trip 2011, the Wee Lass looked across the room of whatever fine dining establishment we were gracing at that moment and scrunched her face up into a big ol’ pity ball.

“That poor, poor woman,” she said, grimacing and covertly pointing a tiny five-year-old finger at some broad at a nearby table. “She must be soooooo sad.”

“What on Earth makes you say that?” inquired Momover Lady.

“Well just look at all that gray hair!”

Instantaneously, the next 15 years of my life flashed in front of me. And I’m guessing it’s basically wall-to-wall beauty maintenance from here on out.

During the spring and early summer, when I was trucking into the offices of an über-magazine every day, I kept myself to a strict every-three-weeks color schedule. With so much work to be done, I didn’t want the distraction (or confidence-busting) of gray roots mocking me every time I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror.

But I was kinda hoping that circa right about now, I could relax a bit and revert to my typical monthly salon trek.

Fat freaking chance with Little Miss Pity Party hanging ’round and eyeballing me.

If only I didn’t have so much “backstory,” as they say in Tinsel Town. But oh, I do. You see, my mother had me when she was in her late 30s – which was about as rare in 1960s Oklahoma as a T Rex thundering down Main Street.

Compared to my friends’ moms, who, I kid you not, were at most 20 years older than us, my mother looked positively ancient. Yes, she was chic; totally and utterly. But she kept her hair in a short, New England-y pixie (she was born and raised in Fairfield), and when it went gray, she just let Mama Nature have at it.

I remember feeling extremely self-conscious about that, as stupid as that seems now. I guess I yearned for a mother with long, fake brunette locks and the groovy bell-bottoms to go with. For my mom to look like everybody else’s. To fit in.

Of course I’m not suggesting that anyone follow beauty dictates from the pint-sized people-persons in our midst; even I don’t intend to do that. I’ve been coloring my hair for years, ever since I spotted a few stray grays way back in my mid-20s. Call me crazy, but a full head of silver wasn’t anything I felt like signing on for that early in the game.

It still isn’t. So this morning, as I dabbed my hairline with my preferred root camouflage – my trusty Roux Fanci-Full Rinse in Spun Sand – I made a mental note to keeping booking my every-three-weeks appointments. For me and the Wee Lass. I think that’s probably a win-win all the way around.

Q: How do you know when you’re totally sleep-deprived, over-worked and out of it?

A: When you hop in the shower, wet your hair, and apply conditioner BEFORE shampoo.

The above scenario just happened to me five minutes ago, and it must be because I overslept while dreaming of another lifetime: Me, the Nineties, platinum blonde hair.

At the time, I had an intense fixation with the late, great Carolyn Bessette, who often wore her dyed-white waist-length locks scraped back in a super-severe, minimalist bun.

So so did I. For years. Most of my 30s, in fact.

More recently, however, I’ve worn a gorge honey blonde concocted for me by my loooong-time colorist, the so-cute-you-could-just-squish-him Anthony Gianzero. I get tons of compliments on my color, and the great thing is that it looks like it’s highlighted when it’s it actually just an easy, breezy 30-minute single process.

So if everything is so hunky dory on the hair front, and it totally is hunky dory on the hair front, why I am fondly lusting after my old bright white? Maybe it’s because it’s really short now, and I think going a lot lighter could spin in it a less boyish, sexier direction.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s because of the creepily phantasmagoric new HBO series Game of Thrones. Hubby and I watched the premiere on Sunday night and I’m still thinking about it.

It.

Is.

Insanity-ville.

I don’t have time to do it justice right now, but I will in an upcoming blog post, because there are tons of kids in it, which is somehow heart-warming and terrifying at the same time.

Anyway, the good folks at John Frieda are obvi reading my mind, because they just sent me a new product I’ve been completely and utterly craving: Sheer Blonde Go Blonder Controlled Lightening Spray. So now I can pretend I’m the platinum princess in the show, whose weirdo prince brother is trying to sell her off to the highest bidder.

I just totally doused my hair in it. (So much for “Controlled”!) Evidently you can also ramp-up the lightening effect by applying a little heat via a flat-iron.

Maybe I’ll try that tomorrow. Right now, I have to scoot off to drop-off and dive into my day. Grrr. But at least I’ll be a little blonder, and a little more Game of Thrones.

Mostly it’s just a massive albatross around my slim, swan-like neck, but sometimes my beauty-hoarding totally pays off. Like recently, with my new pixie ‘do. I’ve never needed, or wanted, to sport so much “product” in my life. But now I can’t get enough of the gloppy mystery goos that have been piling up in my BA.

You know:  the “texturizing pastes” and “molding muds” and other tacky, sticky stuff that you don’t know what to do with.

Until you do know what to do with them. And then they come in right handy.

For example, I am completely doing the happy dance that I hoarded some concoction called Align 12 Straight by Redken. It bills itself as a “protective straightening lotion for medium hair.” But since I don’t really use heat that much (except when I have my occasional bouts of InStyler addiction), and don’t especially care if my locks are stick straight, I never really thought twice about this Redken balm after I chucked it into the dark recesses of the armoire.

I don’t know what made me grab it recently, but I’m glad I did. It plasters down my new cut to just the right degree. Not a helmet head, but not dancing footloose and fancy-free either. It also makes it a bit shiny, which is nice.

I’m also dabbling with a “classic” of late: Bumble and bumble Grooming Creme. A primo de-fuzzer for coarse texture like mine, it, like the Align 12, holds the whole situation in place in a decidedly un-Pauly D-like fashion.

My point, and I do have one, is this: Some looks just require a little more assistance than others. More goo, more glop. Especially when you’ve hacked all your hair off, as I just did.

Long hair drenched with buckets of product is among the scarier things in life. (There’s the good kind of crunchy, and then there’s the bad kind of crunchy. Grrr…) But short hair with a little somethin’ somethin’ generally looks good. Like a girlified version of the über-handsome Michael Douglas. Or Sharon Stone, when she’s really working it.

I needed a trimmy trim trim because my frizz-prone hair was turning into hay again, and boy did I ever get one.

The last time I got a cut this short, I went into full-on panic mode and paid $4000 – yes, you read that right, four grand - for hair extensions. I was a young(er) cashed-up swingle at that point, and had the disposable income to indulge that level of insanity. I had just started seeing The Man Who Would Become Hubby, and in between Date Two and Date Three, my hair fake-grew by about a foot.

Despite the steep price tag, I’d have to say those luxurious blonde pseudo-locks were hot – for about three weeks.

But then they started falling out in clumps all over Would-Be Hubby’s apartment and car, and that was sooooooo not sexy.

Here’s what else wasn’t sexy about that time in my life: The fact that I was so beauty-insecure that I had to literally buy my way out of a short ‘do. What’s up with that? Would-Be Hubby had already seen the pixie, and continued to pursue me, so obvi he was perfectly fine with it.

Whatever. I’m not gonna waste a lovely Saturday morning psycho-analyzing my younger self. “They” say money can’t buy happiness, but in that case, “they” were unequivocally wrong. I spent a small fortune on a foot-plus of blonde happiness – and five mind-numbing hours in a swivel chair at Warren-Tricomi Salon – and I don’t regret it for a second.

This time around I won’t be panicking. Yes, it’s short. Shorter than I’d even really bargained for. But in six to eight weeks, it will morph into the cut of my dreams. And until then, I’m gonna rock it. Rock it like a hurricane.