A New Twist

Few people, besides my hair stylist, really understand my obsession with hair. I recently shared my fixation with an equally hair-obsessed person. This person, however, happened to be a “dred.” If you don’t know, that means someone who has dredlocks. And those of us without dreds are “bald-heads” regardless of whether or not we have hair. There is a big difference between my obsession and his, however. Whereas my obsession stems from a love of beautiful hair, his comes from more of a philosophical place. He enlightened me on the importance of dreds, explaining that they are what hold your memories. His dreds were 12 years old, so that’s 12 years of memories stored in his hair. Also, the act of washing one’s dreds is very significant for when you wash them (usually once every 2 weeks), you’re washing out your recent experiences.

To become a dred, you first must shave your head. Then just let it grow, and don’t wash it. Eventually, you’ll start twisting it into the “dred” shape. He believes it’s important to start from scratch, rather than just suddenly abandoning your shampoo. The reason? Going through that baldness, the ensuing grow-out and looking like a homeless guy for a while, teaches you patience and humility.

Ok. I completely understand that. And I personally believe that patience is a lesson the universe has been trying to teach me for years now, but I just don’t think I could manage to skip the shampoo for more than a day or two. It would make me crazy. Oh, and the bald thing. Well, I tried that a few years ago after a very nasty mishap with some over-bleaching. It wasn’t a good look for me. Oh, and there is the thing about me being in love with hair and hairstyles. I’m constantly changing things up, so trying to stick with the dreds long enough to get them to a place where they look good would just be too much for me.

So, I think I’ll stick with my ever-changing “bald-head” for now and continue to admire all types of hair (even dreds). Here’s a photo of Meg Ryan’s hair, which I think is particularly fab!

Ciao,
Lucie

I Love LA

Have I mentioned lately that I love this City of Angels? Well, we have a love/hate relationship mostly. I love the weather, the iconic Hollywood sign, the proximity to the ocean, mountains and Johnny Depp. Ok. I see Johnny far less often than I do the ocean, but still, there is always that possibility. However, I hate the traffic, impossible real estate market, and the growing percentage of shallow, talent-less wannabes who inhabit this city. But if I try hard enough, I can always find something to love about LA.

This past weekend was an I-Love-LA weekend. I got my hair cut (one of my favorite pastimes) by my genius stylist who then sent me out into a gorgeous “top-down” kind of afternoon. My freshly coiffed hair was blowing in the wind as I sped down Beverly Boulevard toward Hancock Park. The beautiful people were out and about strutting their stuff, and I was so thrilled with my gorgeous new hairstyle that I never once felt the desire to mow them down with my spunky little Matrix.

Once home, I slipped into a sexy little black dress and headed over to West LA for a fundraiser/wine tasting. I made my way through the cheese and wine lines more than a few times, gobbling up the organic (how very LA) wines like a kid gorging herself on gummy bears. I nabbed a fab necklace in the silent auction, and in between shoving cheese-laden crackers into my mouth, gabbed with girlfriends old and new.

After a few kiss-goodbyes, I was off to Hollywood to hook up with a pal for dinner and a movie. The air was cool and crisp, and I was glad I had my trusty denim jacket with me as my friend and I strolled along Sunset Boulevard, dodging punks and Paris rejects all in the same stretch of sidewalk. You gotta love Hollywood’s diversity.

Sunday morning was a stark contrast to the lights and noise of my evening in Hollywood. A friend of mine picked me up at 9:30 sharp and we crammed my beach cruiser into the back of her SUV and headed to the beach. The sun was brilliant, but forgiving as the ocean breezes cooled our skin while we pedaled on the bike path. Surfers were out in droves, bobbing along the ocean waves in their black neoprene suits. Hang gliders were out soaring above the sand, and the bike path was blissfully free of tourists.

Yeah, I love LA.

This is supposed to be beautiful?

Uh, if this model weren't actually wearing a bra & panty set, I'd have thought she was a holocaust victim. I know some people are just naturally slim, but come on. This girl is so skinny she could accidentally fall into a shower drain. Seriously, you could probably slice a pork tenderloin with one of her hip bones. And no, I'm not jealous. Really.

Gotta love it!

If you’ve ever driven down Sunset Strip, you’ve surely seen the hundreds of giant billboards featuring Hollywood’s elite hawking Gap threads or Armani sunglasses. I generally tend to ignore these adverts in favor of trying to avoid running over gawking tourists as they walk, noses in the air, down the street. But the sight of Djimon Hounsou’s thirty-foot tall, glistening, muscular body clad in nothing but a pair of white boxer-briefs towering above me nearly caused me drive up onto the curb. At that moment, I couldn’t tell you what he was advertising as I was lost in the man’s bulging pecs, six-pack abs, and formidable biceps. I’ve since discovered that the ad is for Calvin Klein undies, and if that pic of Djimon came with every pair you bought, I’d run out and buy a dozen! Dear God, is that man freaking beautiful or what?