It was time to cut off the straggly split ends that were making my hair look like trailer trash, so yesterday I went to visit my hairdresser, Mauro, who practices his art at Elizabeth Arden on Post Street. I have been going to him for several years, and he understands that when I ask for a trim, I do NOT mean “please whack three feet off my hair”. The salon is right across the street from a very fancy bridal salon, so while we catch up on our gossip, we can watch brides-to-be twirling around in tres expensive dresses while they dream about their starry futures.
Mauro is probably one of the few non-gay hairdressers in this town. He’s an adorable party boy from Brazil, who has the best dish and a kaleidoscopic love life. He not only makes my hair look great, he makes me feel fabulous. If I win that $125 million lottery draw tonight, I’m putting him on retainer.
So it’s hardly surprising that I got construction worker attention (“Hey, sexy!!” accompanied with whistles) as I walked home, which gladdened the heart of this girl as she struts toward her 40th decade on earth. Why do girls resent this? Nothing like unbiased flattery to make your day.
Stopped in to see Charles, my friend and jeweler (in that order) on my way home. Hmmm, does having a jeweler sound pretentious? Surely not as bad as saying “my butler” or “my personal shopper”. Charles designed and made over my wedding rings and I buy nearly all my jewelry from him, so doesn’t that make him my jeweler? I guess I should probably admit right here that I have a weakness for jewelry and an incurable carbon addiction. But I only bought a tiny pair of gold hoops this time!
As a further ego booster (like I needed one, you’re thinking), Charles said that I looked “svelte and sassy”, so maybe all that dreary exercise is paying off at last. Went home and finally drank some of that Champagne my co-workers gave me for my birthday. The perfect end to my glama day.