A haircut can change your world.
I have never been the kind of girl who “had a stylist”.
I am the kind of girl who goes into the nearest salon and says, “Trim that shit.”
But once I got to New York, I was informed that saying “trim that shit” at any place other than a salon that charges at least $75 per haircut is pretty much asking for trouble.
And so I learned after my very first haircut in the city, that was held at Dramatics NYC on the upper east side. My “stylist” was some guy named “Tiger” and he was more interested in carrying on a conversation with one of the other stylists about her boyfriend than taking care of my hair and he kept talking to her about how being hit in the face wasn’t really okay and how she needed to get out of that relationship immediately and he basically chopped the shit out of my hair, UNEVENLY, and I had to wear my hair in a banana clip for like three weeks afterward.
I had this weird idea that I could get a decent haircut in New York for under $75 dollars. I was so, so wrong. You have to pay AT LEAST that to get a decent haircut. And so I listened when my friend recommended Salon V down in the East Village. And so I went. That was about a year ago. And that was when I met Maria, who is currently my personal hair stylist.
I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who would require a personal hair stylist, but I have now become that woman. Maybe it’s New York infecting me with its weird requirements for its citizens to be gorgeous 24/7, or maybe its just that I’ve never met a stylist whom I could consider a friend and compatriot.
When I met Maria, back at Salon V, she was relaxed, easy, and had an almost immediate understanding of my hair and what it should look like. Since I started visiting her, I have had the best haircuts of my entire life. She takes one look at me, in the chair, and immediately knows what I need and how to make me feel. It’s a very weird thing. She can take me from frumpy to fabulous in about an hour. And it’s not just the salon wash+blow treatment. She actually makes me feel better about myself. I’m cared for. She remembers what I’ve told her the last time we talked. She remembers me, and what I’ve done. That’s the sign of a true stylist. She gets you, and remembers everything about you. And she still LIKES you.
Or “he” still likes you — I’m not going to say that your perfect stylist has to be a girl. Plenty of you out there have found what I have in a rockin’ male stylist. Mine just happens to be a killer Greek chick who lives in my neighborhood but cuts hair down in the East Village.
What I’m trying to say is, go to Maria. She is the BOMB. She has her own salon now, over on 9th between 1st and Avenue A, and it’s called Maria Mok Salon. She has a background in sculpture and art and has decided to take that background and turn it into hair. Which is like the coolest thing I have ever heard. She considers my hair SCULPTURE. And that thought process is readily apparent when I go in looking like this:
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And come out looking like this:
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I love Maria the most. And you should too. If you live in the city and you want an amazing haircut, you should visit Maria. She does wondrous things with follicles.
Seriously.
I am not going to Brazil any time soon.
Um. I don’t know how to tell my male readers that this post? Is so not for you.
Except for how I just told you that this post? SO NOT FOR YOU.
Because I have just had my first Brazilian wax job.
My lady parts feel weird. It feels weird due to the fact that Lulu the Vicious Waxer was RIPPING MY HAIR OUT WITH SOME WAX AND SOME LINEN STRIPS.
Also? I am not quite yet enjoying the benefits of the Brazilian wax job. My skin is swollen, my hair follicles are angry and my actual va-jay-jay? NOT PLEASED.
I can only imagine the Google searches that are going to find this post.
Here’s the thing: I have never had my hoo ha waxed before. Ever. Like EVER. I’ve had tattoos all over my body, so I am familiar with pain, but I have never had a woman slapping her hand around on my lady parts as if they are a piece of meat that needs to be tenderized.
It was, in short, the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced.
If you have been waxed, then you know whereof I speak. If you have not been waxed, then you may draw courage from what I am about to say, or run away in fear.
I went to J. Sisters on 57th and they are known throughout New York as being the best damn Brazilian Waxers in the city. So I made my appointment and made sure the guy taking my appointment knew that I was a virgin. He told me to make sure I told my waxer that I was a newbie.
When I arrived at J. Sisters, I felt like I was going into some weird New York club, as it’s on the third floor of a fantastically baroque building between 5th and Park. I tried to take the elevator, but apparently, the elevator? Doesn’t really work. So I walked up the stairs to the 3rd floor and gave them my name and then the strange Eastern European dude at the desk sent me toward a lounge filled with a bunch of women wearing all white and I walked in and this chick said, “Erin? You have Lulu.” I was like, “And…I’m supposed to do…what?” The chick took me to a door that led to a room the size of my bathroom and said, “Here. You have to be here.” And I said, “Look, I’ve never done this before. What should I do to prepare?” And she said, “Remove all your clothing from the waist down and lie back on the table.”
I briefly wondered if my kidneys were going to be stolen.
But then I took off my pants and parked myself up on this paper-covered table. Minutes later, this adorable little woman showed up, all dressed in white, and she introduced herself as Lulu and shook my hand and I said, “This is my first time, what should I do?” And she said, “Well, it’s up to you what you want ME to do. Do you want a shape? A triangle? A heart?” And I was like, “Um, get rid of everything, I guess. I mean, not EVERYTHING. You know. Like–I have no idea what to say here.” And she smiled and said, “Okay, lie back, and open your legs like a butterfly.”
And so I did.
And so she sprayed some emollient or whatever on my nether regions and rubbed her hand all over them and you’d think that might be erotic, but it totally wasn’t, it was just weird. She had her hand all over me and I was more uncomfortable at thinking about what her job is like, passing her hand across various lady parts, than thinking about how hot it might be that some random woman is touching my crotch.
And then the wax came down.
Let me just say this: I have been a dedicated groomer for many years now. I am familiar with the pain that sometimes comes with shaving ones own…hair. But hot wax, spread upon your nether regions and then linen placed upon it and ripped off? A PAIN I DON’T THINK ANYONE IS FAMILIAR WITH UNLESS, OF COURSE, THEY HAVE ELECTED TO GO THROUGH THIS PROCESS AT ANY TIME IN THEIR LIVES.
It started with the top part of my Bermuda Triangle, and it was not that bad. Hell, I’ve shaved that shit for years. Because, really, who wants to see a big Bozo the Clown hair pie upon removing my panties? I’ve seen the Sex and the City episode where Samantha dyes her pubic hair in order to hide her grays and winds up with a big hair pie of Bozo down there. Red hair is a novelty, sure, but when it comes to red hair surrounding something used for various acts of a sexual nature? Not so much. It’s intimidating. Guys are freaked about it. They kind of like it, but then they’re like, “Um. Is it real? Or do you dye it?” Yes, JACKASS. I dye it. Because I’m THAT VAIN. God.
Seriously — I have actually HEARD that coming out of a guy’s mouth.
So, anyway, back to the waxing — when it moved to the more sensitive areas of my delicate flower, I had to breathe heavily and think of Italy because OH MY FUCKING GOD DOES THAT HURT. According to Lulu, it gets better with every waxing, but the first one, when the waxers are trying to clean up the mess you’ve made with your razor, is the worst goddamn pain EVER.
I don’t know what I thought this waxing experience was going be, really. Except I kind of thought it was going to be like twenty minutes LESS than it was and that the woman doing it wasn’t going to spend quite as much time as she did perusing my lady parts for errant hairs.
Because dudes? She spent a LOT of time down there, making sure she got EVERY LAST HAIR. Like, my gynecologist spends less time staring at my cootchie than Lulu did. For real. Lulu kept slapping it and smoothing it and acting as if she wasn’t rubbing her hand all over my crotch-al area. And of course, at the end, she had me wrap my legs up around my ears so she could get at my BUTT and then I was like, “Um, what the–WHOOOOAAAA!”
What was strange about it, really, was that I realized in the middle of it that it was kind of like a haircut. I mean, I pay my hair stylist roughly $75 to cut my hair, and she does an amazing job. She assesses the situation, asks what I want, and then spends an hour massaging stuff into my follicles and making sure that my hair looks as amazing as possible. Lulu did the same.
Only it was my nether regions that were getting the full nine yards.
I did, midway through, wonder why I wasn’t talking to her as I talk to my hair stylist. “Do you have kids?” “Where are you from?” “Have you always wanted to pour wax on a stranger’s crotch?” But she was between my legs at the time and literally STARING at pretty much EVERYTHING my lady parts have to offer and she was PLUCKING errant hairs and TRIMMING others and I was like, “Yeah, I can’t talk to you about anything at all. Really.”
When it was all over, after she’d rubbed a bunch of emollients all over my delicate flower, she cleaned her hands off and reached out for mine.
“My name is Lulu and I’m here Monday through Friday, sometimes Saturday, but never Sunday.”
“Thank you, Lulu,” I said. “There’s a big tip coming your way for making this as painless and calm as you possibly could.”
And then, after she left the little room the size of my bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror. My crotch-al area looked angry red. It was PISSED at me for doing this to it. I pulled on my pants, grabbed my bag and went out to the waiting area where, when I tried to walk through to the desk, a girl said, “WAIT!” I stopped and apologized because, hi, NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE, and she handed me some sort of bill. For $75. I took it to the main desk and handed it over.
“How did it go?” asked the man at the desk.
“Oh, fine,” I said. “I’ve never done this before, so I guess it was fine.”
“Oh!” he said. “You’re a virgin! Was it good? Bad? How was it?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m coming back in a month, if that’s any indication.”
“It is,” he said. “Women get scared about the waxing. But then people send them here! And then they’re not scared anymore.”
“Women get scared about the waxing because they’ve never had tattoos,” I said. “This is nothing!”
And I paid my bill and threw Lulu twenty bucks in an envelope because OHMIGOD, how much does her job suck?
Look. We all have jobs we hate. But do any of us have to stare strange crotches in the face just to get a paycheck? No. No we don’t. That is a job I would never be able to do. Especially the attention to detail that someone like Lulu pays. Errant hair? Lulu’s got it. Weird hair on the butt? Lulu’s got it. Long hair that may or may not be GRAY? Oh, Lulu is totally on top of THAT. She spent more time staring at my crotch than ANY guy I have EVER dated. (Not that I want the guys I date to stare at my crotch, because, um, that would be weird.) And that is HER JOB. So of course I tipped her HUGE. I don’t want that job! If I had that job, I’d want a HUGE tip! All the time! Forever and ever into infinity!
And that is the story of how Erin had a Brazilian wax. I will probably be fired now that my name is all over the interwebs and I work for a big corporation but it is still a valid post! You should know what you’re getting into! And you should know that, even though tattoos hurt? HAIR PLUCKING HURTS EVEN MORE.
And I see that I have already used the word “crotch” more times than any woman ever reasonably should.
GoDaddy? Is AWESOME.
I went to PA to hang with my boys and I got a call on my handy dandy new cell phone. I didn’t recognize the number, but I picked up anyway, and, um, IT WAS GODADDY. Like a live person from GoDaddy. And GoDaddy was all, “Hi. Why do you hate us?” Because in that vaguely panicked post I put up yesterday morning I was like, “GoDaddy may have lost my stuff, but not really, but maybe I did and I’m kind of an idiot” right after I kind of accidentally overwrote my site in a moment of bland inspiration because WordPress was like, “Hi. Install WordPress.” And I was like, “Shut up, WordPress.” And then WordPress was like, “I AM TOTALLY FUCKING SERIOUS, INSTALL ME OR I WILL EAT YOUR HEAD.” (In short, SERIOUSLY, SHUT THE FUCK UP, WORDPRESS.)
So, like, GoDaddy CALLED me while I was enjoying a nice cool beverage out on the lanai with my boys and they basically said that I was somehow mistaken, that I hadn’t lost everything, that they’d backed everything up and that they were just basically waiting for me to tell them where to put it.
I think it was then that I declared my unabashed love and admiration for the dude on the other end of the phone because HOW COOL IS THAT? HOW COOL?
So, they reinstalled my database, pointed my site at it, and…it’s just like it was. Including the design I tweaked.
In short, I love GoDaddy.
Almost more than I love margaritas.
Oh, it’s been a long time…
I now see that it’s been a month since I’ve last posted. Sorry about that. I have never been a very good blogger. I was better suited to “girl with too much time on her hands and a need to know HTML” than to a traditional blogger. That being said, I think the Papers, while never going away, will probably be relatively sporadic in the coming months, due to the fact that my day job is taking off and I’m really digging it and I don’t have much time for writing in the evenings. Also? I live in New York now, so all I do is go out and sleep with rockstars.
WHAT? I TOTALLY DO.
Except I don’t. I just work my ass off during the day and collapse on my full-size bed in my two-room apartment (that really deserves a new video tour as it now has furniture and decoration about the place) and barely am conscious of anything else for much of the day, week, year.
But today? Memorial Day? I did some totally touristy shit that was quite awesome. And I will tell you all about it when my new URL becomes live: goingtourist.com.
Stay tuned.
We are whores for the internet.
Right now, as I type this, I am also chatting via IM with four other web editors from Hearst. This is noteworthy only because we are all currently resting in our hotel rooms. At the same hotel. In Kirkland, Washington. After two days and approximately eleventy million hours of meetings during which we talked about syndication and online content and sat there with our laptops all typing and and clacking and checking emails and taking notes and throwing out suggestions for future online packages and brainstorming on all things internets, we are currently all ONLINE AND TALKING TO EACH OTHER.
A smattering of our conversations from the past hour or so:
Erin: What’re you doing?
Ashley: I’m cold. And in bed. In my robe. It’s 2 in the afternoon.
Erin: Hee.
Ashley: And I just thought to myself, “I wonder what I’ll eat for dinner.” Because I haven’t eaten enough today. Or in the last two days.
Erin: I am all narfy from that lunch today.
Ashley: That lunch was just. Yeah.
Erin: I want eight grilled cheese sandwiches and a quart of tomato soup.
Ashley: I want wine.
Erin: I am not drinking anything tonight.
Ashley: I want wine.
Erin: And a gun because OH MY GOD HOW CAN YOU WANT WINE?
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Kristen: I am in bed. And possibly not moving. Ever.
Erin: Heh. Not even to go into Seattle?
Kristen: Fuck Seattle. I can watch it on Grey’s Anatomy.
Erin: We’re meeting for dinner at 7, I think. Dinner. Shower. Bed. Car. At 4:30 AM.
Kristen: Gross.
Erin: Ash is in bed. With her robe on. It’s still daylight.
Kristen: I’m not wearing pants.
Erin: I threw my bra against the wall.
Kristen: Classy.
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Eric: I am telling you right now that I am ordering room service. Because I can. And I have had nothing but lettuce for seven hours.
Erin: I am in full support of your room service ordering.
Eric: Also: Lost is on tonight. There will be much lounging.
Erin: Oh god I hope so.
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Erin: When is your effing wedding again?
Ashley: May 17
Erin: Okay. I just got invited to an event in Bath, England for Peter Gabriel. Paid for by a PR company. On May 15th. So I will be at your wedding, but I may be jetlagged. And possibly accompanied by Peter Gabriel.
Ashley: That is totally okay.
Erin: Also? I love that we’re chatting with each other from 18 rooms apart.
Ashley: Love it.
Erin: Hey, at least I’m not opening my mouth and talking.
Ashley: Ha. Yah. Love that we’re all online.
Erin: I know. Sad. But awesome.
Ashley: Exactly.
Erin: And we’re all in bed or covered in blankets.
Ashley: Hee.
Erin: Kristen just typed to me, “I can’t stop refreshing my m-effing email.”
Ashley: Me too!!!! HAHA. It’s a sickness.
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Erin: So…early dinner and then bed?
Lili: Is that a suggestion? Or an offer?
Erin: Gaylord.
Lili: Totes.
Erin: For real. Dinner. Sleep.
Lili: And only five bottles of wine tonight instead of six!
Erin: Urp.
Lili: I need a bath.
Erin: You do. How much do I love that all five of us are sitting around this hotel chatting with each other on our computers?
Lili: I know. We’re retards. And clearly in the right field. Cause we’re whores for the internet.
Erin: Hee. Ezackly.