In Gero Von Boehm‘s documentary on Peter Lindbergh, the photographer talks about the richness, depth and beauty of melancholy and how all the wonderful, fine layers in a woman’s face disappear when she laughs. “You can see so much in faces that aren’t laughing. But if they laugh, you see someone who is laughing. It drowns everything else out. It destroys it.” Lindbergh’s serious portraits of Uma Thurman, Kate Moss, Tilda Swinton et. al. are exquisite, but who can resist this photo of Isabella Rossellini?
My mum said nothing about the thick black eye makeup and bleach blond streaks. She said nothing about the chipped Rouge Noir nails and laddered tights. She said nothing when I shaved the underside of my head. But she did insist I never mess with my eyebrows. Barring a short phase of highly stylized brows, I listened. Now, I’m back to where I started with thick, natural brows that I pay very little attention to. Had she badgered me about all the other stuff, I may well have gone rogue with my brows, and who knows what else. A battle well chosen, Mama.
The only think I like about cats are their eyes. No one does the cat eye like Sophia Loren. Here’s a good little tutorial on how to achieve ones like hers. I kind of love these supersized cat flicks and these ones, too. Also, if I did like cats, I’d have a Russian Blue, and her name would be Begonia.
Take a look at the eyebrows in these Marc Regas portraits –– stylized ones, skinny ones, bushy ones and barely there ones. I don’t know about you, but it’s the thick, natural brows that appeal to my eye. Once every six weeks or so, I go to see Michelle or Emily at Gee for a tidy up. “Sit down, let me pluck those three strays,” jokes Emily. She whips off more than three, but it’s not much more. Still, it’s a little luxury to have them done. These here, these are great brows. And these ones, well these are the ultimate.
Once in a pink moon I’ll wear eye makeup, and by eye makeup, I mean a dash of mascara. But this look, I could get used to. It helps that this girl has perfect skin and a charming smattering of freckles, but hey, why not go out with a herring on your face?
For a girl who never uses hair product, rarely uses a hairdryer and barely uses a brush, I’d give ten bottles of my favourite shampoo for a chance to see the new Sam McKnight exhibition at Somerset House. Diana’s iconic 1990 crop –– McKnight. Madonna’s Bedtime Stories cover –– McKnight. Every supermodel who’s ever walked –– McKnight. “The transformative power of hair — how quickly and easily it can turn you into something or someone else — has always fascinated me. It keeps fascinating me today,” said Mr. McKnight. Tilda’s curls are out of this world, and so were Lindsey Wixon‘s for Chanel resort 2015. I’m sensing a theme here. Is it time I bought myself a curling iron?
The last time I went to the spa, was with Mum in 2009. I was freshly pregnant with Iole, and Maria was in town to do what we do best. Shop/Talk. I’m actually not a big fan of spas. I find them all –– the ocean waves, sotto voce talk, eucalyptus burning in the fireplace –– too contrived. I would rather get my toes painted or my legs waxed somewhere bustling with energy and gossip. This girl has the right idea. Sure, cucumber water would be better than nicotine, but how zen is she, with her Pepto pink towels and matching flamingos? Yes, this is the kind of spa I could get behind.
Iole discovered a smattering of freckles on her cheeks this morning. “Can I scrub them off?” she asked. I told her that freckles are beautiful, and a sign of individuality. Then I showed her Brock Elbank‘s stunning portraits of freckled faces, and told her that her great-grandmother was a strawberry blondie with a thousand freckles. It may take her a while, but eventually she’ll realize that it’s her quirks that make her beautiful.
My hair has lived in a knot on top my head for as long as I can remember. Once in a pink moon, I wear it down. But lately, I’ve been thinking about a chop. I’ve always loved Audrey with her pixie cut, and Winona, Mia and Jean, too. I wore it that way a long time ago, and it looked pretty cute. But can I say Ta-Ta to le top-knot? It’s just hair, I know. But it does feel awfully bold –– far more so than when I cut it Farrow short in my 20s. It’s funny how attached we are to long hair, even when it’s always tied up in a messy nest. It’s the possibility of that pink moon, I think.
I got a pedicure today from a woman wearing enough hairspray to set 1990. She was Joan Cusack (Working Girl) meets Julia Roberts (Mystic Pizza). I can’t remember the last time I wore hairspray — but I do love the smell of Elnett. It reminds me of my grandmother who carried a small bottle of it everywhere she went. As a child, hairspray signified glamour and lux to me, and I fantisized about smoking skinny cigarettes with rollers in my hair. Just for kicks, I may buy a bottle, backcomb my mop and see what the neighbours say.