Statesman > XL Blogs > Archives > 2005 > January > 19 > Entry
To Saks, with love
OK, I’m just going to say this once. I found a gray hair. In my head.
And it was attached.
Because my shallowness knows no depths, I called an emergency summit of my girlfriends at Wanfu Tooto discuss the startling fact that I am aging and see if anyone knew where in the Austin metropolitan area I could get someone to paint my portrait, Dorian Gray-style.
After 15 minutes of railing against unrealistic ideals of beauty and cursing of Helen Gurley Brown, we commenced to examining the offending follicle. I had brought it in an appropriately labeled envelope, after my original plan (impaling it on a spike as a warning to all other gray hairs thinking of making my head their home) fell through.
My apartment, disappointingly, turned out to be entirely devoid of any suitable spikes; all I had was one slightly rusty fondue fork, and let’s face it, unless you’re trying to terrorize a cube of poundcake, there is only so much fear one can inspire with a fondue fork. As per usual, I was going for Vlad the Impaler and wound up with Laura Petrie.
At the restaurant, we bemoaned my fate. Eventually one of my friends looked up from her vegetable delight, pointed a chopstick at me and told me not to worry; she wouldn’t have ever noticed a gray hair… besides, shouldn’t I be more concerned about the bags under my eyes? I suppressed my first reaction (which was, naturally, to sneeze on her tofu when she was in the bathroom) and listened to her advice.
It was decided that the only sensible choice was to hie myself to Saks Fifth Avenue and pick up some Crème de la Mer beauty cream.
I balked.
At over $100 an ounce, even the tiniest jar of Crème de la Mer would devour the money I had squirreled away to buy a boxed set of John Wayne DVDs. I explained this to a girlfriend who then reasonably reminded me that while I might adore Rooster Cogburn, I probably don’t actually want to look like him. I shoved the hateful envelope in my coat pocket and set off for Saks Fifth Avenue.
Technically, I have never actually heard a choir of angels singing exultations from on high, but if I ever do, I wouldn’t be surprised if they sounded just exactly like the sound made in my head when I passed through those sparkling glass doors. When Jacquelyn found me I was standing glassy-eyed in the middle of Cosmetics, possibly drooling, holding my credit card like a chimpanzee with a gun.
She guided me gently around the floor while talking in soothing, reassuring tones as if I was a beloved yet slightly demented horse, good natured but prone to spooking. I tried a half dozen different creams and potions, all with their own specific instructions, including one I had to rub between my fingers to “activate the miracle broth” before pressing, not rubbing, onto my skin.
An hour later I left Saks, happy if a little stunned, armed with a bottle of Chanel lift serum and a tidy little bag filled to the brim with samples of a product line called Sisley. Sisley, I was advised, was a little bit “more of an investment” than Crème de la Mer, so much of an investment, apparently, that the price isn’t even listed on their Web site.
Unfortunately, it works. My skin is firmer and my tone more even and best of all I’m no longer in immediate danger of being confused with Winston Churchill. I say unfortunately, because I’m afraid that a sizable “investment” is in my future. So next week I’ll trek back to North Austin, say a silent goodbye to “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance,” and trade a week’s paycheck for a small jar of blue chip face cream.
I hope she’ll give me some samples, too; after all, a certain tofu-eating friend of mine has been looking a little haggard recently.
Permalink | | Categories: By Rhiannon Gammill
