Someone needs to fire their stylist.

I enjoy looking at pictures of celebrities parading down red carpets of any fancy event. I mean that’s why we all really watch all those award shows, right? Right.

Most of the time, I don’t really agree with all the don’ts picked out. I mean if a normal person was photographed from 25,000 different angles at the same moment I’m pretty sure we would come out with a few bad pictures no matter how gorgeously tailored or expensive our dress was, and how perfectly we posed.

However, I simply hated the styling of Vera Farmiga first at the Oscars. And more recently, today, when I viewed the pictures of her at the Met’s Costume Institute Gala. I feel a little bad, since she just announced that baby #2 is on the way at the gala. But get real. She is a gorgeous lady (hello?! We’ve all seen the departed, both Leo and Matt fall for her-every woman's dream!) and she is a good actress. But she needs to fire whoever has been picking out those hideous frocks. First the over-the-top magenta flounces that did anything but flatter with an overly wispy hair style and makeup that just looked off.

Now this little Bo Peep disaster?

Are you trying to tell us you’re having a boy?

Manscaping: The Male Stylist Experience

The are a large number of Eastern European male hair stylists in NYC.  I don't know if anyone else has noticed this trend.  You can recognize them by their tight pants, buzz cut, and mysterious accent.  Oh, and also by their overly sexualized demeanor that manages to fit hooking up or the possibility of it into every nuance of every phrase.  

With the Eastern European male stylist, your relationship status somehow makes its way into your initial consultation to the tune of, "Are you married?  Have boyfriend?  Why not?  Such a pretty woman!"  They make comments like "Why so relaxed?  It must be my hands, they work magic on your head."  They are extremely touchy, caressing your cheek while painting a foil, and straddling your legs to get the perfect front blow out.  Then will proclaim that they are married, and thus are not available, as if you are the one making all these advances.  Although I am not totally convinced that this isn't just a farce to make you feel a little less sexually harassed.  

I have always been a little skeptical of the male stylist.  Call me sexist all you want, but I just haven't trusted my hair in their hands unless they have long flowing Fabio style locks that assure me they know how to manage something more complex than a bowl cut.  

Recently, however, I have found myself being styled by three different men--all of European descent.  What can I say?  I'm a desperate girl since my longtime colorist abandoned me and feeling a little spurned since all she wanted to do is to have another baby---at least I can count on these men not to do that!  I haven't bridged the hair cut gap yet, but I've relaxed enough to let them try out their skills on my highlights.  I mean it would be pretty tough to mess up blond hair color anyways, why not take a gamble. 

And in the end, the risk was worthwhile!  All innuendo aside, my most recent salon visit was a very successful, if sensual experience.  I liked my stylist's attitude from the start when he told me how he understands how all blonds just want to be blonder.  Then I received the tiniest most perfect highlights combined with a peppermint shampoo treatment that left my scalp refreshed and tingly along with a fifteen minute head and neck massage.  Then the blow out was top notch.  I walked out of the salon with my fine hair moussed into the bombshell waves that every girl craves.  

So, maybe all the excessive touching and inappropriate comments were worthwhile.  Or maybe I just notice all the touching more since it is a man rather than a woman wielding the combs.  I wonder if this is how men feel every time they go to the salon, a little violated, but happy with the end result?  My stylist's name was Picasso, and he treated my hair like a work of art, and I would most definitely recommend him to a friend.