Tag Archives: Laurel Burch

EGAD — what i dreamed last night after too much Peruvian food

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grow old with me

Fall brings Rilke to mind, even here in Los Angeles where deciduous trees are few.

Marcus Daniels, the most brilliant hair colorist in Los Angeles, has been on the run all summer. And as a result, my hair has been untouched for months. I have major skunk-stripe. Instead of hating it, it’s interesting to see that about 80% of my native cinnamon-toast pelt is now white. Not battleship gray, thank God, but really white, as was the hair of my grandmother who more or less raised me.

Lately I’ve been hankering for an eminence grise, but now i realize, in this threshold moment of kairos, that perhaps I am my own eminence grise.

Here are a few tips for other aging gals:

Never wear turtlenecks. Whenever I see one, I just grab my shears and snip off that neck, which effectively adds 20 pounds and 20 years. I use the snipped-off turtle, which is invariably ribbed and stretchy, as a chic matching hairband.

Pendants and necklaces around 18″ long are dangerous if you are short and busty. These make you look matronly.

Ditto for pearls. I love pearls, but they smack of soccer-mom or Eleanor Roosevelt, especially if you’re beefy. Wear with caution.

Fake eyelashes, or even lots of mascara and liner if your eyes are small and deep-set. i call them predator-eyes, which I have, versus the huge, bulging bovine eyes of a prey animal or other bloated, ruminating cud-chewer who can’t get off the couch. As the victim of many well-intentioned makeovers, big lashes make my small eyes look even smaller, like there’s something acrid in the air. Well, I do live in Los Angeles.

Nothing screams “middle-aged, menopausal, crazy cat lady” more than waist-length, all-one-length hair, the way you wore it in high school when you could fit into your coveted size 6 Daisy Dukes. Again, I love big hair — but when you start coloring it, it’s a drag to color a decade’s worth. No power-bob needed, but just sayin’. Granny jeans and a long ponytail are just sad. See “Swamp People”.

Laurel Burch. Anything with those demonic, fat-cheeked purple and magenta cats with turquoise and metallic gold eyes.

Since I am not quite ready to crone out, Marcus is refreshing my color on Thursday. Meanwhile, my wild, shattered, deliberately ragged, jagged post-Frampton (when he still had hair) layers just lift in the warm breeze of summer’s end like the exhaust off a Vespa scooter. Andiamo!!

And to the eminence grise, wherever you are, oooh, baby, I love your way.

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