Super Models of Bad Behaviour

by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol
 

Models. The media is telling you that being one is everything and Tyra Banks is letting you know that you can be a model too. Yes, you transgendered Terry, and you too, legally blind Betty, easy on that catwalk there, girl. Holla! Move over Twiggy because Supersize Susan is hitting the runway as well. Missing a limb? Not a problem, if you can at least ‘smyze’ (that’s Tyra’s own word-- she’s trying to get into the Oxford English dictionary-- for ‘smiling with your eyes’). See? No one is left out. What a great inclusive world we live in. 

Prior to this current Modelmania ladies were simply hired to wear clothes in order to sell them. In the years leading up to the 1960s it was a basic concept and yet a glamorous occupation. Just ask Cary Grant, who wished he could have been one. It ranked right up there with being an airline stewardess. Models didn’t just model clothes; they modeled a lifestyle. The proof of popularity was evidenced in the availability of the outfits one could buy for one's Barbie doll. Mini Chanel suits and Pucci print dresses were abundant for Barbie’s life as a high fashion model, and while you may have been able to snag a nurse's outfit, finding a neurogeneticist's uniform for Skipper was near impossible.

Barbie in head-to-toe Chanel circa 1960

These pioneer women would model for print ads or slink around in fashion house showrooms. They showed up, did their job and went home. At some point things shifted and the demure model world lead to the birth of edgy (role) models like Andy Warhol’s tragic pet, Edie Sedgewick. Twiggy stood out as one of the first Supermodels in the swinging sixties – while the word ‘anorexia’ was just a glimmer in a psychiatrist’s eye. She set the standard for a new frame of body reference: literally a stick figure. Suddenly women wanted to look like they hadn’t developed physically beyond the age of ten. It was the start of western women starving themselves and claiming to their friends, “What? Dieting? No, I just have a really speedy metabolism.” “Me too.” “Me too.”

In the 1970s fashion loosened up as the post-hippie influence offered tent-like caftans, super-flared trousers and blousy shirts and peasant skirts. Yet there were also tight zip jumpsuits and micro-sized swimwear and the rampant use of cocaine aided many models in their strict adherence to a size 2. The Supermodel flourished. Her celebrity status produced the Supermodel Ego. No longer was Mick Jagger seen with run-of-the-mill runway models. Now it was standard procedure for rock stars to be paired with ladies easily known by their first name only: Jerry, Iman, Linda, and so on.

The 1980s leaned towards all-American pageant style girls like Christie Brinkley and Carole Alt. But just as a squeaky clean Cheryl Tiegs was hanging up her Cover Girl crown towards the end of the decade, a new crew was moving in. It was the late 1980s and with the heady combination of fame and loads of powdery drugs a new breed of Supermodel was born into the fashion world. This was the dawning of the age of the Naughty Supermodel. Gone was the sophisticated, demure, white-gloved gal of the 1950s, the quirky swinging Chelsea girl of the 1960s and the au natural mellow lady of the 1970s. KickAss Kate Moss and her shit-disturbing counterpart Naomi Cambpell kicked them to the curb by the 1990s. 

These amped-up models of bad behavior were clocked for all sorts of tantrums. They made most pop music divas look like Sunday school girls. Naomi Campbell, the female Mike Tyson, modeled air rage that soared to new heights. 

Naomi Campbell draws her weapon

Meanwhile Moss, the human Hoover, had the unfortunate luck to be saddled with the moniker Cocaine Kate. But between rocking orange jumpsuits on the side of the highway and obtaining frequent flyer points at the local rehab, these two seemed to fare just fine. In fact, their careers seemed to flourish.

Still, I can’t help but feel sad for the generation that got short-changed with these self-obsessed girls as their role models. Where’s the cool factor? And what about the current breed of pop music stars that young ladies want to emulate-- well-adjusted types like Britney and her esteemed colleagues? When I was about twelve Suzi Quatro, rocker chick extraordinaire, was it! Skoolers, if you’ve never played air guitar in front of your bedroom mirror and lip-synced along to “48 Crash”, well, I just don’t know how you made 
it this far.


 
Suzi Quatro rocks her famous leather jumpsuit.
 
At times her hair bordered on mullet country, but I let that slide. Joan Jett came in second. Here was another gal with a ‘don’t fuck with me’ sensibility who I found worthy as a role model. You can keep your Carole Kings and your Joni Mitchells. It was like choosing motor oil over alfalfa sprouts. You cannot run an engine with the latter.

Fortunately a few years later, Debbie Harry would become another role model for me which helped nurture my feminine side and reminded me that I was not, in fact, a member of the Ramones. Nor was I a member of the Runaways for that matter. She illustrated that a girl could still look tough and cool in a skirt and heels. It was all in the styling and attitude. Nancy Spungen? Not a good role model -- unless you are Courtney Love. And Courtney Love? Not a good role model – unless you are Britney Spears. You get the idea. Call me old-fashioned but how did the skank factor get turned up to eleven? It’s Pop Stars and Models Gone Wild these days. Where’s the freshness? This shit is past its expiration date. Can we get a little lady-like behavior over here please? Reminder: cell phones are for talking to people not for hurling at people. And put some underwear on for God’s sake! Yeesh.

Meanwhile I don’t recall ever looking up to a fashion model for life skills but Tyra has appointed herself to that position, doling out free advice for young women on everything from how to walk and talk to how to psychoanalyze your best friend. And then call her out.

You can’t see it but I’m ‘smyzing’ right now. Actually no, I’m smyking – it’s my own hybrid of smirking with my eyes. I do a lot of smyking these days. I’m hoping it delays the deepening of the parentheses around the mouth, deep crinkly laugh lines around the eyes, and increases the appearance of fine cynicism by 73% in four to six weeks. And the smyke or even the smyze actually makes one appear worldly and wise, like you have your wits about you, a must-have expression for any Supermodel. After all, it’s a fierce jungle out there.

A Pale Tale of Southern Gothic

 
Outstanding Beauty Skool exchange student ready for the sun

 
"You look pale."
Why thank you.
"You look mighty pale."
You flatterer, you.
"You're as white as a ghost."
Careful-- you're making me blush.
"Well, you could use a little colour."
I'll just pop on my favourite pink sweater.
"You look like you're about to faint."
Will the compliments never stop? 

"You should get some sun."

WHOA! What the heck-- that came straight out of left field! One minute they're showering Miss Brown with compliments, the next, they're trying to destroy her skin. Clearly, people have forgotten the tale of gothic horror that lies behind this bloodless complexion.


Miss Brown has long been drawn to the music, literature and landscape of the Deep South. This may be an inherited trait, for her father settled in Shreveport, Louisiana, in the 1980s. He drove down there with his country band, met a wonderful woman, and stayed. Miss Brown's first trip to Shreveport at age 16 coincided happily with the "cowpunk" trend: suddenly punk rockers aplenty were trading in their skinny ties for bolos and their Doc Martens for cowboy boots. Miss Brown had a white pair, and favoured fringed suede jackets and coonskin hats. 

The fur hat never made it out of her suitcase, however, for upon arriving in Louisiana she got a blast of the fiery, sweaty reality that is the Deep South in August. The house was well air-conditioned, so Miss Brown spent the month hanging upside down in the batcave of her room, nose in a book. And so the South of her dreams-- a jumble of swamp moss, mouldering and abandoned plantations, honky-tonks and residents haunted by nameless regrets--remained firmly imaginary.

A 19th Century poster depicting the folkloric Bell Witch

On the last day of her vacation, they brought out the wide-brimmed hat and bundled her into a camper van. The plane was leaving from Texas, so the Brown clan spent a the day on a lake somewhere between Austin and Dallas-- a cool, inviting lake which promised respite from the furious heat. Or so it seemed. Miss Brown spent hours in that lake, splashing around 'till the sun went down.


As the night wore on, Miss Brown was troubled by a mounting sense of impending doom.  Her legs were burning; her shoulders were frying. Her face was sizzling. In the dawn light, she picked up a mirror. HORRORS! Some kind of red-faced swamp thing had stolen her face. Its forehead was riddled with sores. Its swollen eyes glinted miserably. Miss Brown now knew for the first time what kind of havoc the sun could wreak. The one saving grace in this frightening tale: long, dense bangs to conceal the face. Reader, whatever your age, never underestimate the power of bangs in an emergency.


The aftermath was ugly; avert your eyes. It wouldn't do to tell you about, for example, the water blisters, or how the burnt skin shed itself in bits. Miss Brown was pretty sure she had done herself permanent damage. Eventually, though, the Swamp Creature receded and Miss Brown's face reappeared more or less intact. 

Soon after that, it so happened that the beauty experts began emphasizing the importance of sunscreen--we are even told that sun protection can reverse, not merely prevent, sun damage.The still-traumatized Miss Brown jumped on the bandwagon and tried to grab the reins from the driver. To this day she seldom tires of button-holing people and holding forth on the dangers of tanning. She can't say enough about the importance of wearing sunscreen every day of the year.  

Nowadays, virtually every day cream on the market comes complete with it, but Neutrogena was one of the first companies to come out with an effective cream for everyday use. Choose a moisturizer with a minimum of SPF 15, such as Olay Complete Care Daily UV Fluid. Add a hat whenever possible. A parasol. Or a roof. In summertime, ratchet the UV factor up to 30 or more (Olay has a good, though pricey, one in its anti-aging Pro-X line.) And consider using a physical barrier, such as titanium oxide, as your sunscreen.




the parasol: desert island beauty basic
 

Miss Brown returned to Shreveport in winter, and this time she ventured out often and encountered the captivating Deep South for real. More recently she went down to New Orleans, perhaps the ultimate Southern Gothic city and one that deserves its very own post. As for her skin, Miss Brown often opines that the punk rock/goth look saved her skin at a time when tanning was considered healthy and beyond glamorous. But in the wee hours, the phantom voices of killjoy dermatologists who say that even one serious sunburn can put us at risk for all sorts of nastiness further down the line echo round Miss Brown's chamber. Will the Swamp Creature rematerialize in some ghastly new form? Watch this space...







 

Skool Holidays

Greetings, Skoolgoers! Beauty Skool is on a mid-term break. Exams are coming up soon, so please review the material so far. See you soon...

The Foundation Course

Who is that masked Skoolgirl? Outlaw teen showcases the ideal foundation.

by Miss Justine Brown (photo by Sandra Prehara)

It's tempting to spend our Skooltime on extracurricular activities. We have the Foreign Affairs Club, the Pep Club, the Bee-Keeper's Club and so on. After Miss Brown's last post, London Hair Trends Redux, someone started up yet another group-- the Topiary Club. This club attracted half the Skool. We see them all over the halls, garden shears at the ready. Fellow Skoolgoers, we can sometimes spread ourselves too thin; we have to think of our grades! That's why Miss Brown is offering a special guest lecture for the Foundation Course.

Now, Miss Brown doesn't want to take anything away from our fantastic teacher-- what's that? No, she is not a "teacher's pet"! She feels a special affinity for Foundation, that's all. For what is foundation, if not paint? And Miss Brown does like her paint.

Some lunatics contend that we don't need foundation. Miss Brown says this: not only do we need foundation, we need PRIMER. No, just settle down and listen up. And you can STOP rolling apples down the aisle, Miss Green! For your information, Miss Brown has plenty of "street cred." Yes! She has even been caught shoplifting. Twice-- once at age six, and once at age thirteen. What's the point of this shocking revelation, you ask? Read on.

At age six, little Miss Brown was passing a candy shop on her way home from school. Naturally enough, she went in. She didn't have any money. And because she had neither money nor candy, she stole a bit of both: a single gold foil chocolate coin. The shopkeeper tried to pry it from her hand, but she would not give way. She did give up her telephone number, however, and he contented himself with phoning Miss Brown's mother.

At six, few things are more enticing than chocolate coins. At thirteen, few things are more alluring than makeup. Miss Brown was keeping company with a fellow thirteen year-old-- let's call her Mandy-- and they together they fell briefly into a life of crime, getting light-fingered in the makeup aisle at the local pharmacy. Disaster struck when  Miss Brown's cohort got collared by the store detective. Miss Brown got away with her treasure, but not without first whispering a piece of terrible advice to her friend-- don't let them make you cry. And precisely because Mandy did not cry and show remorse, the store detective phoned the police. Whoops. Sorry, Mandy.

Miss Brown got away with her swag because she stole with cool determination. What was it? FOUNDATION. Foundation, that miraculous paint that seemed to magick away her nascent teenage skin problems. The following week, Miss Brown's crime spree skidded to a halt when she was caught shoplifting makeup in, of all places, Army and Navy. Fellow Canadians will know this place. It's big and cheap, full of practical gear, and most often frequented by lumberjacks and fishermen just down from the bush to buy a new set of hobnailed boots or woolen longjohns. It's also flooded with florescent lights and studded with security cameras. 

Miss Brown didn't care. She was giddy with stealing success. She even remembers noting the store detective tapping an impatient toe beside her as she scrabbled on her knees through a bin of cut-price makeup, pocketing random stuff that she didn't even want. Soon she found herself in the cramped, frightening office upstairs. Luckily for Miss Brown, her mother alerted a dear family friend who also happened to be a lawyer. He dashed into a phone booth and emerged in a flawlessly tailored suit, turned up at Army and Navy in a jiffy, and smoothly persuaded the store detective to release the young felon into his care. It was scary and embarrassing. And so ended Miss Brown's life of crime.

The point of this sordid story is this: young Miss Brown stole foundation and got away with it because foundation was important. She later got caught (and just as well) because she got sloppy. She didn't need or want those random pots of disco glitter and bronzer in the bin. 

Today, foundation remains a crucial part of her makeup routine. Then, it helped to camouflage spots and (provided one could find the right product in those olden days) whiten the skin. Nowadays, it evens out skin tone and texture and provides a canvas for additions like blush, highlighter and powder. Miss Brown will recommend her two current favorites, a cheap, wintry one and a pricey, summery one: Maybelline Dream Creamy Foundation and Bobbi Brown Oil-Free Even Finish Foundation SPF 15. But first, a few words in favour of primer. Now, some of you think primer is just another plot launched by the military-cosmetic industry to get you to shell out big bucks for something you don't need. In that case, try an inexpensive but excellent brand of primer-- Avon Magix, which can be worn alone with just a little concealer. Worn like that, it creates a soft-focus effect and smooths the surface of the skin.

Class, Miss Brown prefers to go whole hog: apply primer because it makes the paint stay on all day, then a little concealer where needed. Finally, without creating an inch-thick mask, she dots foundation on her forehead and chin, strokes a little down her nose and cheeks, and, using a foundation brush as all painting students should, she stipples from the nose outward. Blend, blend, blend. Inspect at close range. You are ready to add whatever colours you desire! And so ends this student's contribution to The Foundation Course. Thank you.

Luv Song

article and illustrations by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Things aren’t always what they seem. When the lights are low in a nightclub the magic comes to life. Smoke and mirrors present a world of fantastical images and the Luv-A-Fair was that mythical land. It was the “new wave” club where most hard-core punks would not be caught dead. The air was infused with the heart-pumping mascot drug of the dance floor: poppers. And as the drinks flowed the Look of Love looked increasingly better as the night wore on. But if you have ever been in that club before the magic starts or at the end of the night when the lights come back on, that enchantment has long caught a cab with its new best friend: illusion. You know what I’m taking about. Let’s face it, the majority of people look better in the dark and for the rest good lighting is everything.

The Smilin’ Buddha, punk’s premier destination, on the other hand, had no chance of even attempting to be anything more than it was-- a narrow little beer-soaked pub. It was a rock bottom ‘warehouse’ with rock bottom prices. However, it did carry one claim to fame: Jimi Hendrix once played there. (At least that’s what my parents would boast). That room held as much mystique as its doorman Igor was debonair. Still, it was an exciting dive, our dive; the only club in town that would consistently allow punk bands to perform.

I couldn’t help myself and in the late 1970s to early ‘80s I would traverse the two worlds --sometimes racing from the Buddha to the Luv-A-Fair towards closing or vice versa depending on that night’s talent line-up. These hot spots were Vancouver’s answer to CBGB and Studio 54, respectively. Despite the fact that Poly Styrene was belting out “I am a poseur and I don’t care” on the PA, patrons of the Buddha considered being labeled a poseur a challenge to a duel. In the Luv-A-Fair they were vying to make a career out of it, or at least to get a free drink. People made it a point to look fabulous and fashionable -- they really put in the effort. Giant speakers sat against the walls and doubled as gogo dancing platforms beckoning, “Hey, you just spent 35 bucks on your new black vinyl Le Château pants, jump on up here and showcase those fuckers!” And they would. 

Many club-goers were art school students, aspiring models, designers, hair stylists and make up artists. The hair was big and flawless. I’m sure that Flock of Seagulls dude had backed a truck full of Dippity Do into the loading dock and showed everyone how to use it. 
 

Mike Score of Flock of Seagulls flew the hair standard high.
Before becoming a pop singer, he cut the stuff for a living.

Meanwhile many of our Buddha counterparts (aspiring or practicing anarchists), were busy using toothpaste, beer, Jello, egg whites and even the very bad choice of glue to achieve serious spikiness. 

Usually we frequented the Luv-A-Fair during the week. Saturday was considered “Squares Night Out” but it also offered the most opportunities in terms of ‘acquiring’ drinks. People would abandon fresh bottles of beer while they hit the dance floor. I felt less remorseful if it happened during a lame song, anything by Split Enz or Haircut 100. (Notice their names are really all about hair?) Fair game, I’d say. However, towards the end of the night my pals and I would get sloppy and disregard the telltale sign of a room temperature beer bottle that offered the special sunken treasure of a cigarette butt or two. Touché. Life’s a gamble. I did not, however, play those odds at the Buddha.

Luv-A-Fair scene-makers took their dance moves very seriously and had their own signature steps, i.e. the iconic “Dan Schnell”, who owned Duran Duran’s Planet Earth, or maybe it owned him. Many affected an expression of ennui while working a cool, slow moving twist or Ska type of swing that communicated something to the effect of, “Oh this dancing thing? It’s so pedestrian, but really what else is there to do except go home and cut...” I considered myself a bit of a bon vivant and would bop in a lively fashion to even the darkest tune. Enola Gay? Bombs away! Love Will Tear Us Apart? I gotta go cut a rug! Fade to Grey? Well, okay! Give me some space, people! Bela Lugosi may be dead, but not me. 

Sharing the dance floor was a little different at the Buddha. The strategy was to actually stay somewhat vertical. Sometimes a playful push to release a heavy Dayton boot from my foot was necessary, other times a little shove to navigate a beer bottle from slamming into the side of my head made for a more coherent evening. There was nothing malicious about the mosh pit, just exuberant sloppy fun-loving kids bouncing around. No one had a true set dance style but when things got rockin’ the ear to shoulder side headshake manifested (which allowed for some great hair resuscitation). Change sides as needed. 

One of the most enjoyable parts of my night was the preparatory stage of hair and make-up. Our primer was of the alcohol variety. However, applying one’s make up sober is, of course, paramount to a successful night of looking good. Touching up one’s make up while slightly tipsy is touch and go. And retouching whilst plastered is just a cry for celibacy. 

Inspired by some of the masters and mistresses of illusion at the Luv-A-Fair I tried my hand at a few beauty aesthetics. I was excited about the idea of having glamorous nails -- those would really accentuate my dance moves. Enter the Lee Press-On Nails kit. Always classy. I was extremely pleased with my way too long smart pink nails even though they prevented me from putting my hands in my pockets; it meant sacrificing a favorite pose. It’s important to decide if your night is going to involve snapping your fingers along to any of those thunderclap and whip cracking enhanced tunes like Master and Servant or Whip it Good. If the answer is yes, the wearer must ensure not to form too strong a relationship with those prosthetic nails. Eighty percent will abandon your fingertips and only about ten percent will be returned to you, usually with the comment “your fucking nail landed in my drink, bitch”.

Another beauty embellishment that backfired was my Mod false eyelashes. (They went extremely well with my Mod white gogo boots). They stayed in place almost till the end of Tainted Love. It was a remix, extended version, so really, that’s a good chunk of time. At the end of the song my pal informed me that I had a caterpillar walking across my eye. When I got upstairs to the girls’ loo I saw Malcolm McDowell circa Clockwork Orange staring menacingly back at me.

What a Kick In the Eye; I realized then I would have made a shitty drag queen. There is a definite art to the magic of self-transformation. I started to understand that I had to work within my limitations. Sure, I can paint my face and tease my hair adequately enough; still, I was never going to achieve anything near the perfection of those glam Luv-A-Fair kids. They had mastered the elusive skill of illusion. They emerged from the darkness while the music and strobe lights were in full swing and the clever ones vanished into the night before the end of Love Song. 

The Luv-A-Fair ended on February 1st, 2003.

London Hair Trends Redux

Miss Brown, about to pop out for a pint of milk
(photo by Miss Diyah Pera. Dress by Cathy Mann)

by Miss Justine Brown

Those who are in the habit of dividing the world in two sometimes say that there are two kinds of women: those who wouldn't think of dashing out for milk without lipstick on, and those who would. As the above picture suggests, dear reader, Miss Brown is firmly in the first camp. Lipstick is only the beginning. There is so much else to consider, not least one's hair. And now that big, puffy, "done" hair has made a dramatic comeback, those of us who take fashion SERIOUSLY would rather remain shut indoors than venture out to the convenience store (or, as we call it in our neighborhood, the inconvenience store, for it is strictly a 9-to-5 business) without proper preparation.


No doubt about it, fashion is really an event in London towne (and, for some reason Miss Brown cannot quite fathom, this spectator sport comes complete with jeering and sniggering). The 18th century is back. As you may recall from an earlier post, silver gray hair is all the rage. Just after that post, no less than the Sunday Times Style Supplement ran a piece featuring a number of bright young things-- celebrities and socialites-- camouflaged as old ladies with fabulous skin. 

Pixie Geldof at the height of fashion

Weekly "blowouts" (professional blowdries) are back. Hot rollers and backcombing are part of the deal. But since everyone is still feeling broke, they try to make these last as long as possible. So shower caps are selling briskly, as well as something called "hair perfume." More to the point, every hair product company has added some form of dry shampoo, the likes of which have not been seen since the 1970s, when ladies still went for weekly sets. Well, the whole kit and caboodle is back.


Miss Brown is grateful to a friendly reader who, in a recent letter, mentioned "Pssst", an aerosol dry shampoo quite widely promoted circa 1978. Pssst, whispered Miss Brown's inner something, you used that stuff when you were thirteen. As the reader implied, dry shampoo is a bit of a misnomer. Basically the product just mops up oil with powder and adds scent-- sometimes a rather strange one. It's all terribly aristocratic! (Does that help?) Anyone who saw Sofia Coppola's film Marie Antoinette, which presents the doomed 18th Century Queen of France as a sort of punk chick in Versailles, complete with a rock 'n' roll soundtrack and Sex Pistols-style typography, will notice that underlings often seem to be spritzing her with perfume. As many of you will know, aristocrats of the time seldom bathed, believing the practice to be actively bad for their health. Neither did the rest of the populace, but they didn't have great lashings of perfume.


Right. So, to get down to brass tacks, teenage Miss Brown had a fair bit of oil to contend with. Oily hair, oily skin-- a nasty enchantment that could be broken only with powder. The powder didn't completely sort out the skin, but let us leave that aside for now. Talcum powder works well with blond hair (as does corn starch, though when it rains one fears one's hair will glisten and perhaps smell like a stir-fry) but gives a gray tinge to dark hair. As we have seen, that may be just the ticket if you're going for that look. Many aren't-- but read on to hear of recent developments in dry shampoo "technology."


Miss Brown actually found her first dry shampoo on her mother's shelf. The name of this brand is elusive, but it had a chemical odor. Now Miss Brown's mother does not suffer from oily hair. She likes to set her hair a bit with rollers, and the dry shampoo gave her hair a good texture. This is the thing. With the right curling and powdering, a girl can get quite a big head of hair going. The sky's the limit-- have another look at the photo above. If you are really committed, like Miss Brown, you too can have fantastic hair.


Bumble and Bumble (www.bumbleandbumble.com) make dry shampoo in four colours-- blond, which works well with silver hair; red, brunette and black. The packaging is excellent: it features line drawings of 18th century ladies and getting powdered by their maids in the small chambers built for the purpose, hence the term "powder room." 
 


A gent in the powder room with a cunningly devised mask


Gentlemen wore powdered wigs, while ladies tended to powder their own hair, though they did use hair pieces to big it all up. Our Rococo predecessors experimented with other colours, like pink, blue and lavender. So did some of our grandmothers, aka "the blue-haired set", but still one begins to see why Vivienne Westwood, doyenne of punk and an immensely successful couture designer today, is obsessed with the 18th century and often incorporates its imagery and forms into her designs.
 

A lady at her vanity table


The Bumble and Bumble product is ingenious, but overall Miss Brown favours Stila Hair Refresher (www.stilacosmetics.com) in "creme bouquet", mainly because it smells good. Now, you will have to excuse her. We are out of milk, and there's some work to be done in milady's boudoir if she is to catch the inconvenience store before it closes in two or three hours.



 

Barbie, as fashionable as ever

Beauty Skool Visit: Pia Shandel

Interview by Miss Justine Brown

All right Skoolkids, this week we have a special guest beauty, one of the great blondes-- Pia Shandel. In the interests of journalistic transparency and bragging rights, Miss Brown reveals that Pia is a close family friend. All her life Miss Brown has had the great good luck to know the smart, funny, vibrant and gorgeous blonde. Pia has appeared in films and for a number of years co-hosted an evening talk show on CKVU television in Vancouver. She then hosted her own phone-in show on CFUN radio. Read on to learn more. Hear how Pia went undercover with a shiny black bob. Notepads at the ready!
 

Q: You were hired at CFUN because you're much more than a lovely face. Was it exciting to develop a persona and work in a medium with no focus on your looks? Was it strange at first?

A: Moving into talk radio was obviously a big change from television, where there was daily pressure and much time consumed trying to look good for the camera. Hair, clothes and makeup had to be perfect (which was, of course, impossible)... then "How do I sit, from what angle are they shooting me?" was always in my mind. Stand up straight, be graceful, try not to make faces, etc.

For radio I could work in comfortable clothes, dressed up just enough to be presentable in a casual work environment. I used to sit in my office at the radio station, working on pre-production, and watch all the sales girls sashay past my floor-to-ceiling... they all looked like they had spent most of the  morning working on hair and outfit etc... getting gorgeous in order to sell, sell, sell. I was in the enviable position of having to use my wits to succeed, rather than looking provocative or delicious. I was amused to hear from listeners who, according to the sound of my voice, pictured me as a sophisticated brunette. I guess if you sound smart, or original, folks assume you could not possibly be a blonde... because everyone knows that blondes are more fun, but not so bright!

It took me much longer to establish credentials when I worked in t.v., perhaps partly because I could be seen as blonde, so there was a kind of built-in bias that I had to work very hard to overcome. Radio was much more stimulating in terms of the content I was free to create, in part because I was invisible!

 

Pia-- doing justice to blondeness

 

Q: What has been your favourite job to date?

A: I did most enjoy live television. It was exciting, and glamorous, and tough, and I loved getting famous and I loved the challenge of keeping up with research and content. The daily ritual of hair and makeup and wardrobe, though time consuming, was a lot of fun, because what girl doesn't love to get gorgeous? Professional hair and makeup is like the ultimate luxury...and when I look back at pictures, I probably looked better than I realized at the time. Also, meeting so many fascinating people, from Sting to Pierre Trudeau, and having to meet them on a level playing field in an interview situation without coming off as an ignorant ass, was incredibly stimulating. The five years I did that two-hour live magazine show in prime time each night, was like a dream come true. It was harshly competitive, but it made a man out of me!

Q: Tell us about your recent adventures with a Chinese-style black bob.

A: A couple of years ago I walked away from my media career. I was disillusioned with the radio station because they kept changing their format, dumbing it down according to the trend toward entertainment at the expense of information. I was exhausted, as I had spent three years getting up at four in the morning in order to be on air by six, when the radio audience is largest. I felt like my whole life was shrinking, and I was constantly tired. I am definitely not an early morning girl. But then I kind of fell into a slump, not knowing what to do with myself.

It has been my experience that women do drastic things with their hair when they are depressed or confused. First I tried extensions, which gave me thicker, more glamourous blonde hair, but it never looked quite right, and it certainly felt pretty weird over time.  Since I have fine, blonde hair, those weaves would peek out and I felt the crushing humiliation of inauthenticity. So I had them removed. The next weird thing I did was have my hairdresser take my colour all the way to black and cut it into a cute Chinese style bob. I have to say, I think it looked fantastic. 

Mr and Mrs Brown out for a fabulous dinner with Pia in good ol' London town

There's a back story to this, which I hereby reveal for the first and only time. I had a boyfriend who moved to Shanghai to start a business. I would visit him there, and we travelled to Beijing, as well as Tibet and other Asian places.

 

I got the definite impression that he was liking the Asian girls, so in my competitive Viking way, I decided that just because there were millions of them with glossy black hair, they did not have a monopoly on the look! So, I decided that if he liked the raven-haired Asian girls, I would do my best to look like one! It worked for a little while, but eventually I decided that he was not worth that kind of desperation. How humiliating for a real blonde to join the herd and go dark just to interest a man.

The black hair in one of its phases

That's as peculiar as Rihanna posing blonde and golden and naked on the December cover of GQ magazine. The things we do...

Two points: as a black magic woman, I generated a completely different vibe. I was striking, but almost scary. People took me very seriously, and certainly noticed me, but I have to admit, I missed the blonde thing. You know, that automatic response a blonde generates walking down the street? The way men automatically check you out when they are attracted by your light hair. A woman with dark hair does not get that magical blonde reaction. You are somehow more powerful, maybe just as attractive, but you are...not...blonde!

Secondly--and I certainly did not think of this ahead of time-- when you are blonde with black hair, as it grows, the light roots make you look bald! Yes, bald. What could be worse? So I had to grow it out. Now what this entails is, first, you have to keep cutting it short as it grows out, and you have to slowly change the colour back, bit by bit.

So I spent eight months going from black, to brown, to blonde and having gamine short hair. This whole going black thing has been my strangest hair experiment ever...even worse than those eighties perms! But when I look back at the pix taken when it was new, and good...I have to admit it was a fabulous look.

Q: What is the strangest piece of beauty advice you've ever received? (For example, I read about one Hollywood actress who never smiled lest she develop wrinkles.)

A: The strangest beauty advice I have ever received is when a renowned dermatologist, recently consulted in relation to the encroaching lines and sags inevitable to the aging process, told me it would be a great idea to undergo something called a 'fraxel', which is a kind of laser burn inflicted on your face, that theoretically improves your appearance by re-surfacing your skin. Odd. The "after" pictures showed men and women whose faces looked like they had been dragged face down behind a speeding truck for several miles...all bloody and oozing. I was assured that this was a temporary result, which would eventually be replaced by a smoother more youthful skin. Sort of like what happens to burn victims....smooth, shiny skin. I couldn't get out of that office fast enough!

Q: Name your three desert island beauty products. (I guess I'm assuming there's a handsome man marooned there too.)

A: Sisley Ecologique Compound (the best light moisturizer ever)...a pink/mauve lip gloss, and black black mascara.

Q: Can you give us Skool girls one or two beauty secrets?

A: Sex is good for your looks.

Q: You radiate fun and optimism. Talk a bit about this in relation to personal glamour.

 

A: There is no doubt about it...depression, even just a bad mood, makes you look awful.  Beauty really does come from within. When you feel up, your body moves with grace, your posture improves, and your face relaxes. Good thoughts radiate beauty and excitement.  Perhaps those Vogue models can look beautiful no matter how they are feeling, but after the age of 25, what you feel is how you look.

But here's the thing...you can't just sit around and expect a good mood to drop down from Heaven...you earn your happiness. Exercise, meditate, eat well, and think good thoughts.  It's such a cliche, but it can be done, and it works. You have to make the effort to be in the moment. To me, that is the real secret. Can you organize your thoughts and perceptions to totally take in your reality, the other people around you, the light, sound and air? To be in the moment is to be beautiful. Dark inner thoughts cloud the beauty of being alive.

Q: Who are your all-time favourite screen sirens? What draws you to them?

A: I love Marilyn Monroe, because she had a luminosity that was probably mental illness, but nevertheless was noteworthy. Her body, her awareness of sex, her need to be desired , all made her  special. Plus the way the light reflected off her skin. She was the ultimate sacrificial lamb. Why is that so sexy? I own two Andy Warhol 'Marilyn' silk screens and worship her daily.

Going completely in the opposite direction...I adored the 'Klute' era Jane Fonda. Her lanky body, unusual features, and fabulous hair, coupled with a ferocious acting talent, made her one of my all-time favourites. I still love the way she looks.

Q: In your opinion, do good looks have a down side?

A: Good looks never have a down side. Extreme beauty definitely does have a down side. To be breathtakingly beautiful, as I have observed in a few people I have known (it is rare), seems to give rise to instability. There is a constant war between narcissism and insecurity in the great beauties, plus a kind of arrested development intellectually and emotionally.

But 'looking good' in the more ordinary sense is always a good thing, and can be acheived by anyone, as the Diana Vreelands and Andree Putnams and Annie Leibovitzes of the world have shown. The key is to know your strengths and your weaknesses, and present yourself at your best, with control and good spirit (and lighting!). To know yourself is to love yourself, and that's good looking.

Q: What is on the horizon for you, Pia?

A: I am currently working on an independent television pilot...hope to finish the shoot in early March. Also, I have been writing a memoir for two years now. I hope to finish the first draft in February, while staying in a jungle villa in Bali. Also, I am returning to  live theatre in a production this spring at the Arts Club Theatre in Vancouver. It seems I have been discovered again!

I can't say that I particularly like getting older, as far as it pertains to matters of the flesh, but I seem to be having a particularly exciting renaissance in my creative life, such as I have not experienced in years.  Now, if I could just fall in love again, life would be perfect!