The Fashionista Files (21 page)

THE NETHER REGIONS

I Have Hair There?
KAREN

I had no idea what I was in for when I first went to J. Sisters, a bikini-waxing Shangri-la on West Fifty-seventh Street named after the Brazilian sisters—Jocely, Jonice, Joyce, Janea, Juracy, Judseia— who own the place (if you notice, all of their names start with the letter
J
). It was the fall of 1998. And for four years I had been hearing all about the J. Sisters, how it was the best wax in town and once you got it, you could never go anywhere else. Fashionistas of all kinds—from Christy Turlington and Naomi Campbell to Gwyneth Paltrow and Patti Hansen—swore by them for their bikini-wax expertise, which resulted in a line of hair hardly thicker than a string bean. In fact, Gwyneth signed her photo, which hangs on the spa’s wall, with a note that said, “You changed my life.” I had to admit, a wax that could change your life made me curious. While I had always been a Gillette razor kind of girl, in the name of south-of-the-border chic, I made an appointment.

In the waiting room I spotted Jennifer Grey and patiently read through the J. Sisters’ press clippings from all of the fashion magazines that gave them star-studded reviews. I had never had a wax before, and to be honest, I was kind of scared. But I took Advil beforehand, as I was told it prevents feelings of extreme pain. The salon is pretty bare-bones. No frills. No fancy chairs. Just a highly embellished ceiling with original ornate prewar moldings. I could hear the ripping and tearing noises oozing from the wax rooms, which were barely big enough to hold the table on which you lay for the procedure. A few “ouches” pierced my ears. Just as I was contemplating bailing, Juracy, who is supposed to be the gentlest of them all, beckoned me into the room.

She told me to take my pants—and undies—off. “But I wore my skimpiest panties for the occasion,” I said.

“That’s nice. But they go off.”

I stripped down and got on the table, asking her to go easy on me. “It’s my first time,” I confessed. She rubbed me down with powder and promised to take good care. Then she pushed my knees apart and slathered on the wax. I stared at the swirls of the molding on the ceiling and the gilded finishing touches on the chandeliers to keep my mind occupied on something other than the fact that this woman was getting a close-up of my vulva. She started with the sides and the part that sort of hits the crease of the thighs. It hurt! I grabbed her hand and asked her to warn me next time. She took more off, moving closer and closer to the middle of my sacred area of untouched skin. She took almost everything off. And that was only the beginning.

She had me lift my legs and hold my knees so that she could really take a good look. I was so self-conscious—and so exposed. I wondered,
Does this count as a lesbian experience?
She continued waxing downward, making her way to my rear end . . . um . . . the opening, if you know what I mean. And there was another rip. I was a bit grossed-out, actually. “I have hair there?” I asked, shocked and embarrassed about my obviously bestial nature. She nodded. Sensing my mortification, she told me it was okay, “Everyone does.” That means you do, too!

She got rid of hairs on the lips and—damn—for a minute there, I was pretty sure she was waxing the little bits that were borderline inside of me. It felt so intimate. I never imagined giving someone this close a view of me. I wasn’t even sure my (then) boyfriend had even taken that good a look! Once she finished the job—ten to fifteen minutes later—I had to admit . . . I looked pretty darn good. And I was smooth as a baby. The fact that the process was—shall we say—invasive no longer mattered. The results were that fabulous. I’ve been going back religiously ever since.

Let It Rip: The All-important Bikini Wax

It’s something every fashionista must do, even if the only person to see it is Jean-Claude, her toy poodle. Fashionistas don’t like anything to be messy, even (or especially!) the area south of the border. In the world of hair removal, more is more! Choose a style that’s worthy of your Cosabella thongs.

The Triangle—A seventies throwback.

The Racing Stripe (a.k.a. the Playboy)—A long strip favored by porno stars and sexy soccer moms alike.

The Dictator—A square shape reminiscent of a famous tyrant’s mustache.

The Brazilian—Any of the above shapes with a little extra taken off, such as the area from the pubis to the tush. Worth the pain.

The Logo—When the Gucci ads showed a model with a big G down there, it sparked a trend from Beverly Hills to Madison Avenue. Karen has gotten the letter “T” for her boyfriend, Todd.

Themed Trim—Heart-shaped for Valentine’s Day, a star for Christmas, the addition of Swarovski crystals (just use false eyelash glue), or a little glitter for a wedding. Dye it if you dare or the occasion permits. Green for St. Patrick’s Day.

How to Survive a Brazilian

We’ve all been there, clutching the tissue paper and screaming for mercy. But it doesn’t have to be torture.

Never schedule a wax when you are PMS-ing; the skin is more sensitive during that time of the month.

Take a painkiller an hour before your appointment. Many of us pop Advil before a Brazilian, but some of us save that Vicodin pill the doctor prescribed for our wisdom-teeth removal.

Get a topical anesthetic. Just be careful that it stays on the outside only.

Request the gentle wax for sensitive skin.

Stop shaving between waxes. The more you shave, the harder and more brittle your hair will become—leading to very painful experiences.

Warning: The Brazilian removes hair underneath the vaginal lips as well as on its surface. It is extremely hurtful. If you cannot stand it, just stick with the basic and forget about flying down to Rio.

Suggestion: After the wax, cleanse with an astringent. Yes, it will sting. But it will help prevent unwanted whiteheads and ingrown hairs.

FASHIONISTA FILES: THE COLLECTION BY ORLY

Designing Our Own Nail Polish Line
MELISSA AND KAREN

One of our favorite pastimes is getting our nails done together. “Wanna get a mani-pedi?” Karen will ask, which is short for, “Do you want to spend three hours in a salon, get our nails done, and riffle through
US Weekly
and
Vogue
together?” It’s a quintessential fashionista bonding moment, combining all of our favorite activities—pampering, virtual shopping, and gossip.

Our only complaint is that we can never find the right nail colors. We always want to be “edgy” and fashion-forward, but the trend for blue (or black, or purple, or gold-dusted) nails seems so . . . adolescent. It’s just not “us” anymore. More often than not, we reach for our perennial red or black-red or pale pink classics. But we can never find just the perfect fashionista red—not too orange, not too blue, not too pale, not too dark. Or the perfect pale pink—not too yellowy, not too white, not too bubblegum.

So when the nice people at Orly asked us to design a line that would appeal to fashionistas, we jumped at the chance. We decided that since fashionistas wear only reds and pinks, our collection would have only six colors, from the darkest, blackest red to the most whisper-soft pink. Plus, each color would be named after the type of fashionista we envisioned wearing it. This way it would be easy to mix and match colors, since most fashionistas do a light manicure with a dark pedicure (except for Karen, who only wears dark red nails).

Follow our chart to figure out your nail polish needs!

So pick up the Fashionista Color Collection from Orly—as a fashionista, you’ll find all the basic hues you’ll ever need for your fingers and toes!

Designing the collection with Stel and Carole from Orly

Nailed

A fashionista’s most relaxing moment is at the nail salon. Fashionistas never go out without a proper polish job (although short, bitten nails with chipped red polish does work for tough girls who cultivate the sexy, punk Pat Benetar vibe). Fashionista nails are square in shape (round is too matronly). And they often like to curl up at home with a good book and thick layers of cream on their feet (covered by plastic wrap and cotton socks) to ensure soft soles.

PUTTING ON THE RITZ

Botox for All!
KAREN

Warning: Botox is a controversial procedure, and although it’s FDA approved, just because some fashionistas are sick in the head and get it the second they see a furrow in their skin doesn’t mean you should, too! If you do want it, however, host a Botox party. It’s all the rage!

For a fashionista, a dermatologist friend is as golden an accessory as a Birkin. Mine is Dr. Steven Victor, a silver-haired, stately-looking man who has a prestigious client list of the city’s biggest fashionistas, socialites, and celebs. As a doctor, he is precise, scrupulous, and cutting-edge, offering a menu of the most experimental procedures from Europe. This is the man who melts fat with ultrasound. And he’s also totally cool, the type who frequents trendy, hip restaurants, keeps up on the scandalous gossip, and gets invitations to all the A-list parties. All of my friends see him— and adore him. In order to kill two birds with one stone—get in our necessary procedures from the good MD and hang out—I organized a Botox party for six at his Upper East Side office off of Madison Avenue.

Punch & Judy, a chill tapas and wine bar on the Lower East Side, and one of my favorite haunts, catered the affair with mini smoked-salmon sandwiches, beef carpaccio on toast points, foie gras, and more. Between bites of prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, we all consulted Dr. V about what we needed.

“I just had Botox last week,” one guest said. “But I didn’t get it between my brows and there is a furrow there. Can you fix that?” Of course he could! Beth wanted Botox, too, but she was petrified, as she was super needle-phobic. Marjorie wanted microdermabrasion, a hard-core exfoliation treatment that practically sands off the top layer of dead skin cells and helps to even out the skin tone, as well as a laser to rid her of broken capillaries on her cheek. Stacey had the doctor examine her postbaby stretch marks. Nicole just wanted an overall checkup and someone to deal with a little problem she’d been having. “I know this sounds crazy, because I’m not overweight, but I have . . . I don’t want to call it a double chin . . . but this,” she said, “it’s just extra face.” Dr. Victor hadn’t the heart to tell her that “extra face” was a double chin.

As for me, Dr. V suggested a small hit of Botox (hardly wrinkled, I was open to it in the name of prevention . . . you can never start too young!), a laser to take care of my sunspots (damn them!), and while I was at it, a rosacea facial to combat redness. (I needed more than I bargained for!)

Everyone’s treatments went without a hitch. Until Beth! Her nerves were on edge over her needle fear. While the actual Botox shot, the puncturing of the skin with the toxin that freezes the muscles that cause wrinkles, wasn’t a big deal . . . the thought of it was. Afterward she had a full-on panic attack. She started sweating. She turned pale. Her lips actually got blue. “I need to lie down; I need to lie down,” she said, her limbs shaking.

She wasn’t allowed to. After Botox, you can’t lie down for up to four hours; otherwise the Botox will potentially travel to a different part of the face . . . and the last thing you want is to paralyze (even if it lasts only four to six months), say, your right eye! Dr. V put the chair back a little and held a cold compress on her forehead and neck. “I need sugar. I feel faint,” she went on. “Does anyone have candy or orange juice?” She was woozy.

One guest ran to her bag. “I went to Bergdorf Goodman for lunch and took the petit fours we didn’t eat,” she said, placing a pile of mini cookies and biscotti on Beth’s lap.

Getting shot up while Nicole holds my hand

Doctors and dining! Last dibs on food from Punch & Judy before parting!

“I’m gonna vomit,” Beth said. “No cookies! Just candy.”

The nurse brought out the smelling salts and the scene went on for about fifteen minutes. We banned the photographer from the room! What’s a fashionista party without the drama? Soon after, everything was fine—and the girls were all booking appointments for six months down the line.

If you’re visiting NYC, you must see Dr. Victor. He rocks, and his office is at 30 East Seventy-sixth Street, off Madison Avenue.

The Luxe Life

Fashionistas have very stressful lives, all that running in heels, trying to get ahead of the credit card bills. A day or a weekend at a spa—and a quick trip to the dermatologist—rejuvenates our senses (and skin). Below is a list of remedies for the fatigued fashionista.

Hot-stone massage—Hot lava rocks are massaged into your body for a grounding, relaxing, soothing effect.

Oxygenating facial—A normal facial with huge boosts of oxygen, through products, to the skin in order to make it appear younger. Apparently skin loses oxygen every year of your life after puberty.

Reflexology—The practice of stimulating certain nerve points in the foot in order to affect other parts of the body, from back injuries to the digestive system. Also, it just feels good after a day in stilettos. Don’t wear heels for the rest of the day after. In fact, you should even get someone to carry you home.

Restalyne—An injectable filler for frown lines. For advanced and older fashionistas only, please. Fashionista podiatrists, like Dr. Suzanne Levine in NYC, shoot up the balls of the feet with Restalyne and collagen to add cushion to make wearing heels more comfy. God bless.

Botox injections in the armpits—Prevents sweating (excuse us, perspiration), which will save you money on dry cleaning, my friend.

Laser treatments—Fashionistas love all sorts of lasers— plumping up the collagen on your face, getting rid of scars and stretch marks, zapping sunspots—plus you get to wear those cool glasses. Also, any new age-defying treatment will do.

Cellulite massages—Hard-core massage treatments that are supposed to break up your fat.

Colon therapy—Nothing like a high colonic to rid you of the toxic perils of white flour and Diet Coke!

A good night’s sleep—That means bedding with a high thread count (anything less than three hundred is not acceptable; Frette sheets are preferable), an eye pillow, a Tempur-Pedic mattress (the best money can buy), and Threadcountzzz pajamas, made of cotton with a thread count of eight hundred! Fact: Sleep deprivation leads to stress, aging skin, and weight gain.