Number ONE

As most of my readers know, I am obsessed with beauty. And beauty salons. I like to take pictures of them - well, ones that just scream out to be photographed, like this one:
I wonder what makes this the number one beauty salon in all of Los Angeles? In two languages, AND numerically, as well! Was it a contest? Is there a golden list of some sort of "beauty number ones"? What an honor. And the bar on the door - is that to protect their beauty secrets that have made them number one? I really should call, to see how they answer the phone. With pride, one hopes.

Here, There, and Everywhere

Scatter Perm! Doesn't it sound great? A curl here, a curl there - why not? Well, you would have to have someone roll those rods in perfect symmetry or else you'd "Lopsided Perm" and look like an idiot! We can see why the "Scatter Perm" idea didn't catch on. It sounds more like a game.



I apologize in advance for this theme song being stuck in your head for the rest of the day.

Thanks Dr. G.

Purr-fect Hair

Thanks to Lex who sent: "Saw this & said "Donna!"

It's ALL About the Hair

and no, I'm not talking just about my baby pictures. Y'know, like in Female Trouble, when Chiclet (or is is Concetta) tells Dawn:

"Get your hair done - that's what I always do when I get depressed!"

It's true! I long for a luxurious afternoon at the salon. Actually, Iong for a weekly wash'n'set appointment, where I can while away the afternoon and zone out under the dryer. There is nothing like being under the dryer on a cold day. But I digress. I don't have time to spend at the salon and while I'm grateful to have work - I often don't - I do wish I was somewhere else. Like here.

Sorry, I got interrupted by that dastardly work again! Here's another salon visit of my dreams:


Look at this shampoo - someone filled a fountain in Australia with it! You could jump right in, ala La Dolce Vita ... if your shampooist was nearby:



Oooh, Lustre-Creme:


I'm sort of hypnotized by Oscar Blandi:

Hag-o-rexics

I went to the gym earlier than usual today and was confronted by the two types of women's-only gym members: the older, chubbier lady eager to keep her health, and the exercise anorexic. There's one 'rexic I usually see, ipod in, chugging Red Bull while furiously jogging on the treadmill, shaking the floor. This morning I found a pair of keys on the treadmill and after doing the usual, "Anyone's keys?" I brought them to the front desk. A few minutes later, an exorecic snapped at me, "Can I have my keys?" She had been on the elliptical, I think, with earphones in. When I explained that I brought them to the desk, she snarled, "Well, I wasn't finished." She went on to another machine and turned the pages of her magazine as loudly as one can. Who are these hags? What's the use of being uber-thin if you are mean and angry? Note to self: never go the gym on Saturday morning again.

Required Reading: Dowager Quarterly