In the Land of the Giants

 No time for jet-lag first morning I woke up in Paris.  I was headed down to Nogent-le-Rotrou in lower Normandy, to visit my blogging friend Virginia, on an early train out of Gare Montparnasse. I woke early and gave myself plenty of time, stopping at the cafe on the corner for a cafe au lait and a croissant before heading to the station.  While the coffee was a bit bitter and the croissant less than perfect flaky deliciousness, I did feel a part of the city, as workmen and neatly suited women shared the same petite dejeuner. 

I wrestled with the ticket machine once again at the train station - it took about three attempts before I really could approach an SNF machine with confidence -- but eventually I picked up my round-trip tickets and was pleased that I remembered to activate them before I boarded the train. I had time to spare so I wandered around a very well-stocked pharmacy (my ongoing indulgence) and then hit the newsstand for a Coca Cola Light, a chocolate bar and the latest issue of Vivre Cote Paris, my favorite design magazine*.   I paged through my magazine while I waited for my train, though I was much more interested in checking out my fellow travelers, including a young man wearing a beret un-ironically, napping on his duffel bag.

The first time I'd gone to Virginia had been in December and the landscape was quite bleak, stubs of crops harvested months before, skeletal wet black trees, grimy sodden sheep in muddy pastures. By contrast, the route this time was idyllic with lush green fields, charming rosy stone cottages, poppies -- or coquelicots -- and bluebells scattered on either sides of the tracks, and storybook-worthy forests, with glimpses of sunlit green glades and brooks. My seat mate pointed out Chartres cathedral, an image I've seen so many times in Monet's paintings. For the first of many times, I marveled at what it must be like to live surrounded with so much beauty and history. 

Virginia and her wriggling English Springer Spaniel Tommy met me at the station and soon we were loaded into her English drive Jaguar sedan, off to a nearby town for lunch. I knew gas prices were higher in Europe, but I was stunned to learn that it ran about $9 to the gallon in France. It made me all the more appreciative for Virginia's generosity in showing me around the region. We stopped first in a pretty-as-a-picture little Normandy town. Two young girls on white ponies were looking over a map as we drove into the tiny hamlet of 17th century stone houses on winding lanes, window boxes overflowing with brilliant blue hydrangea and fuchsia geraniums, the doors and window frames painted a particular shade of blue-green that Martha Stewart could only dream of emulating. We went into a little cafe, Tommy included, and started our lunch with a local specialty aperitif -- a kir made with locally produced sparkling cider instead of white wine. It was refreshing and delicious. The starter and main dishes were delicious, followed by a creamy cheese course and then a salted butter caramel custard that made me want to lick the plate clean. Incroyable. Back to the car and on to the Prieure de Sainte-Gauburge, dating to the 13th, 15th and 18th centuries. This magnificent handsome building rises out of the fields like a mirage.

Inside, a friend of Virginia's was hanging a photography show of regional images shot by a couple who had moved to the area from Brooklyn years before.  The building itself was so beautiful, with a domed wooden ceiling, soft brick floors and ancient stone carvings.

Tommy made himself right at home on the cool tiled floors.

This may be Saint Excedrin, patron saint of migraines.

With chickens in the yard and tidy flower beds, this house across from the priory was irresistible.

 

I loved all the textures of weather-worn wood and pale yellow stone.

 

 

I didn't realize how patterned this thatched roof was until I downloaded my photos. I was more focused on the old cart in front of the barn.

 

 Regional specialties include pork rillettes, rabbit pate and escargots.

Next to the priory is the L'Ecomusee du Perche, celebrating the local agriculture and produce of the region, in particular, apples and Percherons.  This is Calvados country and sparkling and hard cider are the beverages of choice. The local orchards are carefully preserving heirloom varieties and are eager to expand their markets internationally.

Almost four years ago, when I was first going to visit Virginia, I did a "google" search on the region and came across this article from The New York Times by a writer named Colette Rossant. When I mentioned it to Virginia, she told me that not only was Colette a good friend, but so were several of the people mentioned in the article. So I was utterly delighted to learn that our next stop was for tea with Colette at her stunning home. The farmhouse is between two barns that have been converted to living space. Her late husband was an architect who added several modern touches to the the house, like glass doors, without destroying the integrity of the building. Inside, the space was very open and cool, with stone floors and thick walls and a massive fireplace at one end. Colette's daughter and grandchildren were visiting from Germany and tea was served with a plum tart that she'd made that morning with her grandson, with plums plucked from the orchard behind the house. Colette is a James Beard-nominated author of eight cookbooks and several memoirs of her life in Egypt, Paris and New York. She spends her winters in New York, as the house in le Perche is too big and cold to adequately heat, and her address is just a few blocks away from my apartment. I'd love to get back in touch with her when she's back in New York. Her kitchen was a chef's dream come true and I could have spent hours just listening to her weave her tales.

I was fascinated to learn that she'd been the "Underground Gourmet" in New York magazine for years. When I first became infatuated with New York when I was living in South Carolina, I'd devour every issue of New York magazine I could get my hands on and I always read her column about out of the way dining destinations.

We reluctantly said our goodbyes, then headed to the Hypermarket to get preparations for dinner. Once back at Virginia's house, we dropped off my overnight bag, paid our proper respects to each of her four Abyssinians, then we headed off to see the giants.

"Why would you want to go see horses when you could spend time admiring me, Genji?" 

Or Bibi-, or Tama- or Sei-Chan, the Pouponettes!

The Percherons.

To call these noble beasts "draft horses" is a terrible disservice. These are the noble steeds of the knights and the Crusaders. Their history dates back to the fifth century. They may have been bred from Arabian stallions brought by Muslims, mares captured by Clovis, or reinforcements from Caesar's legions. Whatever their heritage, they wear it proudly, with large noble heads, intelligent eyes and gentle demeanors belying their massive strength.

We crossed a field, after turning off the electric fencing, across a narrow pipe bridging a creek and into the pasture where Virginia's Viddock and his older brother big Tom lifted their massive heads from grazing and ambled across the field in the late sunlight of early evening.

Soft nudges of velvety noses for a gentle caress or a scratch under their chins. The horses have thick ropey double manes, almost like finger-width dreadlocks on either sides of their arched necks. Their shoulders are thick and well-muscled. They are big, magnificent brawny creatures and I honestly felt humbled in their presence.

Big Tom comes over for a nose rub from Virginia.

Viddock is Virginia's boy, just three years old. He's a bit smaller than his half-brother Tom, but there's plenty of time for him to catch up. His coat is a foggy deep gray.

Virginia commented how rare it was to see two stallions residing so peacefully together and indeed, I remembered seeing the double fences that would separate breeding stallions in their own pastures when we'd drive past Thoroughbred farms in Kentucky. These two boys are good friends. Virginia pointed out Tom's folds of skin where his neck meets his shoulders. These are unique to stallions and not seen on mares or geldings. Viddock's have yet to appear as he is still a youngster.

Satisfied with their dose of human attention, the horses wandered off to continue grazing and we navigated the fences and field back to the car where we drove up the hill to a picturesque chateau, resplendent with turrets and a beautiful view overlooking the fields below. 

The grounds of the chateau are home to the Elevage de Percherons du Grand Prainville, so we entered a stable housing even more Percherons, including Virginia's mare Violette.

This handsome fellow is Urey. He had been purchased sight unseen by a Danish woman. After Urey spent almost a week being trailered to her stable,  his new owner pronounced him "a monster" and immediately put him up for sale.  When Virginia heard this, she quickly put plans in order to purchase him and return him to his stable in France, as she was unsure who this not-so-great Dane might sell him to (especially as Percherons continue to be sold for horsemeat in France.) Fortunately for Urey, he was soon out of his filthy stall - the men who came to collect him found him knee-deep in manure, as his stall hadn't been mucked out since he'd arrived - and back with his friends at the chateau. Not long before I met Urey, he'd been visited by Benjamin Grain, the premier acrobatic rider in France, who was interested in training Urey to work in his show at the Museum of the Living Horse at Chantilly. He ended up purchasing the horse, but had not yet collected him. (Remember this story for a future post!)

Far from a monster, Urey was true to his Percheron heritage, intelligent, curious and sweet. And now he's going to be the star of the show, living in a palace for horses!

This fellow receiving a kiss on the nose from Virginia is Voltaire. Virginia is very involved in the Societe Hippique Percheronne (the French Percherons have an SP brand hidden under their manes on their necks) and explained that horses are named alphabetically each year, thus Viddock, Violette and Voltaire are all three year olds, while Tom is five years old and Urey is four. While Percherons are used as carriage horses and for dressage, they are still primarily seen as farm horses in France and many of them receive very little care beyond food and stabling, as compared to their American cousins. Many may never seen a vet or a farrier and are often worked to death and then replaced. When Voltaire first arrived at the chateau he was very shy and fearful around people. Now he is a delight, happily greeting each visitor.

The lovely white Violette was rescued by Virginia when her owners refused to provide additional food or water for her one particularly bitter winter.

Tom and Viddock's father was especially attentive when their mother was lead past 

on her way to the field for grazing.

They'd hoped to breed this gorgeous young mare last year but she just wasn't interested.

Hers is a "Coat of Stars." Black Percherons have a "Coat of Night" while Percherons that turn white are said to have a "Coat of Clouds." Such poetry.

Naturally, there is a large collection of extra-large horseshoes on hand! Sylvie, who lives there and runs the Elevage de Percherons du Grand Prainville, offered me a horseshoe to take back to show the kids at Heroes on Horseback, but it simply weighed too much for my already heavy suitcase. But I thought they'd enjoy this photo of my size 7 1/2 foot next to an average Percheron shoe.

I loved this vibrant orchid-colored door.

 

Tommy, wondering why I was so busy taking photos of horses 

when he was around and ready to pose.

After a lovely conversation with Sylvie, we headed home in the dusk, with just enough light still in the sky at 8:30 p.m. to take Tommy for a walk through the fields before dinner. Dinner at the kitchen table, topping off a bottle of champagne, then off to bed, window open to the sounds of the fields, including a rooster with a broken wristwatch. Paradise found in la France Profonde.

Many thanks to Virginia, Colette and Sylvie who made my 24 hours in le Perche unforgettable.

*This gorgeous interior/lifestyle magazine used to have English translations of all their articles in the back. I'd first try to read the french version, then flip to the English so I'd look really smart!

The arrival...

 The view of Rue St. Placide from my apartment.

 Wednesday, July 15 -- My head jerks upwards and my eyes snap open. The plane is still quiet and dark, the soothing hum of the engines. Was I snoring? Did I snort myself awake? The luck of the draw, I managed to get window and aisle seats all to myself. The downside, the armrests barely lift up -- so much for stretching out. Outside the window, the sky is a soft pale cashmere gray, dawn is approaching. I look at my watch—8:30 am.  I try not to think that it's 2:30 in the morning back in Manhattan. One of my travel mind games is to immediately reset my watch to the time at my destination and to start "thinking" in that time zone.  As if on cue, the aroma of coffee begins to waft through the cabin and assorted red blanketed lumps begin to sigh and move.

Day 1 of my summer adventure has begun.  I've exchanged my apartment in New York and my house on Hilton Head Island with my friends Sanjay and Djamila's two-bedroom apartment in a quiet residential section of Saint-Germain. This will be my tenth visit to Paris since my first trip in 1998, when the light and beauty of the city left me speechless, a not untypical case of love at first sight. And while I'd spent a day or two on my own in Paris, when my traveling companions had left earlier, I'd never spent this much time in Paris, completely on my own.

When this adventure was first brought up, I thought immediately of my friends in Paris. Sanjay and Djamila obviously would not be around, but I'd reunited with old friends Tim and Sara when I'd been in Paris last September. Tim was a work colleague I knew in Boston and his wife was a fashion executive. Almost three years earlier, they'd moved to Paris when Sara had landed a once-in-a-lifetime job. They knew lots of ex-pats and I hoped they'd provide me with some introductions. I also had stayed in touch with Elise, a woman I'd met at a cool hair salon five years earlier. A Texan who'd moved to Paris with a French boyfriend, she'd begun teaching Tex-Mex cooking in her apartment and wrote a brilliant blog about her experiences. My last Parisian friend was Sabrina, a willowy 30-something interior designer, named for the Audrey Hepburn character in the movie of the same name. Sabrina was a friend of a friend, but I'd seen her the past two times I'd been in Paris and she was delightful. Bon!

Then I discovered that Tim and Sara were moving back to Massachusetts approximately the same day I was arriving in Paris. Elise was on a summer-long book tour of her recently published "Cowgirl Chef," and Sabrina would be spending every weekend and much of August at her family's home in Normandy.

Suddenly I was very much more on my own. My friend B. was taking the Eurostar from London for a five day stay with me, but she wouldn't be arriving until Monday night, five days away. Granted I'd be taking the train the next morning down to Nogent-de-Rotrou to see my blogging friend Virginia for an overnight visit, but I was navigating this trip to Paris all alone.

One of the shocks of travel is discovering how much of the world looks alike, especially the areas around airports. The patchwork of fields outside the plane window could have been in my childhood Ohio except for the rows of thin, cylindrical cypress trees lining the roads—a sight that always says "France" to me. The plane whined as wheels were lowered and we landed with a soft thump.

Suitcase, carry on and tote bag in hand, I headed out of the arrivals terminal and saw a tall Indian man with a placard reading "Jain Stufer." Close enough. We were on our way, the AT&T on my iPhone already replaced with Orange. My driver called the woman I was to meet in front of the apartment and spoke to her in rapid French. I was a bit alarmed how few words I could pick up. Merde. I'd really hoped that my dusty grade school/high school/college French would serve me well.

I met my upstairs neighbor by the glossy burgundy doors that opened onto the courtyard of my 1830's building. A code for the front door, a second for the interior door and I was wedging my luggage into an elevator slightly smaller than a phone booth. Creaky wooden stairs circled the glass elevator and we arrived at the 2nd floor landing (or the 1st floor, in France) at the same time. More glossy burgundy doors and we were inside my home for the next four weeks. My neighbor, a slim and harried woman about 40, quickly showed me how to turn on the gas stove and how to tell the dishwasher from the washing machine in the kitchen. With a brusque, "bon journee" she was gone, along with my visions of late afternoon chats over glasses of chilled rose in my apartment with my fun new French friend.

I took in the herringbone parquet floors, the airy high ceilings edged in cake-frosting molding, the French (but of course!) doors and windows opening onto the postcard-pretty street. The fat orange goldfish swimming lazily in a plant-filled tank.  I also took in the narrow room off the kitchen with just a toilet and a tiny sink. The single closet in the front hall (four people live here). The room with the bathtub and sink on the other side of the apartment. The very low, double bed in the master bedroom. And the lack of any air conditioning. Or fans. I didn't expect a/c, heck, my own apartment in New York doesn't have central air having been built in 1920, but I do have a window unit in my bedroom and two fans on either side of my living room. No fans?

I noticed the beautiful windows could be opened two ways, like doors or with one panel tilted open, allowing for a bit of cross ventilation. I set about opening every window in the apartment, bringing in a light breeze as well as a patter of french and the clip of heels from passersby. I was drawn like a moth to the front room windows, leaning out on the railing as I watched young mothers in their skinny jeans and ballerina flats pushing baby carriages, elegant older ladies in dusty print dresses and sensible strapped shoes, pulling wire carts of groceries and shopping bags. I stifled a yawn, realized I was hungry and quickly stacked my multitude of sweaters, tees and cosmetics on the empty armoire shelves provided and hung my dresses and trousers in the closet.

I jotted the two door codes down on a slip of paper, emptied out the contents of my tote bag to the essentials, swiped on some lipstick and headed downstairs, a slight thrill that my long-anticipated French adventure was now truly underway.

For some strange reason, I always scoff at carrying a map when I'm traveling abroad. Even if I've never been in a city before, I'll study my laminated Streetwise map (easy to quickly fold and stash before anyone can see me looking at it) before I go out, then only refer to it covertly if I'm good and truly lost. I don't begrudge other tourists their maps, I just never want to look like an inexperienced traveler. So leaving my map on the living room coffee table, I set off to one of my favorite cafes — the Cafe de la Mairie facing L'Eglise Saint-Suplice and it's marble lion-guarded fountain. I get there on a fairly direct route and soon am sitting at a table in the second row, rehearsing my order in French in my head.

Here's the problem -- my French pronunciation in my head sounds so much better than the actual French that spews out of my mouth. I stammer, I forget articles, I pronounce letters that are silent. It's slightly mortifying, especially with the rather no-nonsensical waiters at Cafe de la Mairie who will frown and quickly revert to English, even — horror of horrors! -- handing you the English version of the menu. Merde.  But I persist in ordering my "sandwich Camenbert et un verre du Sancerre" with a minimum of embarrassment, and as I take my first bite into that perfect baguette, I am utterly, completely contented.

The uber-chic Vespa helmut at the table next to mine at Cafe de la Mairie.

It will come as absolutely no surprise whatsoever when I say that few places on the planet rival Paris when it comes to divine people-watching and there are few locations better to take in the daily fashion show than this corner of St. Suplice. Well-coiffed ladies in creamy linen dresses with table side Yorkshire terriers. Reed-thin young women with those perfectly messy chignons that only Parisiennes seem able to master,  Isabel Marant-inspired (or inspiring) cool girls, casually smoking cigarettes or sending texts. And those frenchmen with their artfully mussed hair, beautifully cut summer suits,  paired with polished loafers worn sans socks and broad-collared crisp white or blue dress shirts, worn open without neckties, heavy watches on their elegant wrists. Sigh.

Two such cool girls were drinking cafes at the table next to me, the centerpiece on their table being a gorgeous polka-dotted helmet lined in glossy red leather. I craved that helmet, forget the Vespa. Better than an "it bag," dangling this from your arm would just scream  "je ne sais quoi" style. I leaned in, apologized for interrupting and asked if I could take a photo of the helmet with my iPhone. The women seemed smiled and said yes. "C'est vachement chouette!" I enthused, surprising the women with my slangy equivalent of "That's bloody smashing!"It's a phrase I was taught years ago and it has served me well.

Maybe I could become a little bit French after all.

Back from a month in Paris, with loads to report!

I'm just back from the best summer vacation ever~four weeks in Paris, interrupted only by five marvelous days spent in Marbella, Spain with some dear friends and a day spent in Tangiers. An incredible experience that I can't wait to write about in detail. Everything from what to stash in your carry-on for a long haul flight and what to pack and maybe more importantly, what not to pack to favorite places and experiences. I've got literally hundreds of photos to share, but this will become my travel diary. I hope you'll indulge me and come along for the journey!

Bisous,

Jane

How to talk to a hair stylist & get a great cut

Believe me. I've been there. Panicky sweat trickling down my back as I race through the aisles at Walgreen's minutes before closing because my DIY haircolor is more "Traffic Cone Orange" than "Honeyed Caramel." ACK! I felt like a real-life Cathy cartoon (never a good thing!).

I remember irritating the hell out of my parents as a teen, convincing them to pay for a rather expensive straightening process that required two visits —this was decades before the arrival of straight irons and Brazilian blowouts -- only to decide to cut my hair short on the second visit. This was back in the day of Marcia Brady and her perfect straight sheets of blonde hair parted down the middle.

Instead I had thick short dark brown wavy/curly hair that was prone to frizzing when the slightest humidity was in the air. I grew it out around age 13-14 but once my goal of Marcia Brady perfection was deemed impossible, I cut it short and wore it pretty much like this for the next 25 years.

Esme Marshall became my hair role model (though I never did rock those Brooke Shieldseque brows) through my high school and college years.  Which brings me - at last - to my first rule of talking to a hair stylist: 

Insist on a consultation before your hair is even shampooed.

Let your hairstylist see how your hair moves. Stand up, shake your head. Talk about what your expectations are, why you chose to come to this particular hairstylist (you love his beachy looks, you've seen his great blunt bobs...) and then have a realistic discussion. Do your research! On to rule #2:

Bring in a photograph of a hair style or color that you like.

Yeah, sure, you've all heard that before.  But it helps show a hair stylist what you think a mid-length cut looks like, better than just telling him and ending up with something that grazes your jawline instead of your shoulder bones. It can also provide good guidance for colorists. You've no doubt read that your childhood haircolor is the most flattering - in my case, that didn't apply as my hair was dark brown and I've now been a medium blonde for the past 15 years. But if you were naturally blonde as a child, dig up some photos if you want to go lighter. 

Thanks to the internet, it's easy for find several views of the same haircut. Case in point: last summer I wanted Carmen Kass' short haircut, as cut by master hair guru Sam McKnight. Not only was I able to find several photos of Carmen, I actually found a YouTube video of Sam cutting her hair!

While I never quite looked like Carmen's twin sister, I was happy with the results!

Which leads me to rule #3: 

Don't be shy. Ask an expert for advice!

Ted Gibson, Oscar Blandi, Rita Hazen, Serge Normant, Harry Josh, even my hair god Sam McKnight are all on Twitter, as well as many other top stylists. And while you may never be able to afford their services (or be famous enough to hire them!), most will be very happy to answer a question you may have about one of their hairstyles. In my case, I sent Sam McKnight a tweet, telling him that I had a pretty good version of his Carmen Kass haircut from the Balmain show and was wondering what products he'd used to style it. He wrote back almost immediately -- Magic Move -- which I found at my nearby Ricky's beauty supply store. 

Now obviously, Carmen has silky straight hair whereas mine is both color-treated and wavy. On to rule #4: 

Be realistic about your time, money, and hair care commitment!

To maintain a short cut, I need to plan on getting my haircut every 5-6 weeks. I already get my hair colored every 5 weeks as I have horrific gray roots, so I needed to add more frequent haircuts to my budget as well. On top of that, the only was to keep my hair sleek and frizz-free was to get a keratin treatment ($250-$350 for a treatment that lasts 1-3 months, plus shampoo and conditioner specifically for treated hair at $25-30 a bottle.) I cut down my blow-drying time but had to add in some time with a flat iron. 

I'm single, work from home, and only have to style my hair once or twice a week. However, if I was a busy working mother on a budget, this would not be the best hair style for me.

On to rule 5: 

Women who look like they "just stepped out of a salon" probably just did. 

Know your hairstyling skills or learn some new ones.

Are you all thumbs with a round brush, flat iron, curling tongs, diffuser? If so, either tell your hair stylist what you can and can't do. OR - book an appointment with your stylist or an assistant to learn how to style your hair. Bring in your own equipment or ask for a shopping list. 

Which brings us to rule 6:

 Ask for specific brand names of hair care tools and products. 

New York editorial stylist Steven Dillon rarely uses a single product out of the tube. Instead, he'll mix a personalized concoction of creams and serums in the palm of his hand to get exactly the results he wants. Put down your iPhone or look up from that British Vogue and ask what your stylist is doing, what products are being used and how you can replicate his or her efforts at home. 

Rule 7: Invest in good styling tools, especially a professional quality hairdryer and brushes.

Here's why -- all hairdryers are NOT created equal. Even if you have easy breezy wash-and-go hair (Bitch!) there are times you'll need a dryer to give you extra body or just get you out the door faster. 

A good, powerful dryer will cut down on the amount of time you need to expose your hair to heat, whereas a cheaper dryer may not have the same kind of strength. If you have curly/wavy/frizzy hair, you'll want a dryer with a concentrator that will help direct the airflow down the length of your hair, preventing frizz.

Again, ask your stylist for recommendations for dryers and other tools as well as brushes. For some hair types, natural bristles help distribute natural oils, but they can be too damaging to fragile hair - a mix of natural and synthetic bristles might be better. Ask!

And my final rule for fabulous? 

Go to the best hairstylist you can afford and let them do what they do best!

As a creative professional, I can go a bit nuts when non-experts question my creative judgement. I know how to do my job and I do it well. Same goes for a hairstylist. Do your homework, have a great consultation, but ultimately, let them do what's best. Even if you're not in a big city, seek out the best hairstylists where you live. Ask that woman in your pilates class who cuts her hair or compliment her on her haircolor and say you're looking for a great colorist. More often than not, people are happy to share their experts. Or if you'll be traveling to a big city, splurge on an appointment with a top stylist. Tell them you'll have to maintain it when you get home and ask for your color formula. Once back home, go to your local stylist about 3-4 weeks after your cut -- before you NEED a haircut -- so your stylist can still see the lines to follow from your original cut.  You should be able to stretch the life of your hairstyle this way.  If you can't afford the top stylist every time you need a cut, ask him or her to recommend someone less expensive in the salon. This way, you can get the top stylist two or three times a year and someone more affordable the rest of the time. 

Okay, I lied. I have one more rule. 

If you have a great experience, write a thank you note. 

People are so fast to complain and so slow to compliment. So if you love your new hairstyle, take the time to write him or her a note.  Repeat one or two of the raves you've received. Tell how you've never felt so fabulous. It doesn't have to be a long letter, a few sincere sentences will do. (And you can't imagine how well appreciated it will be. Especially the next time you need a last minute appointment. Or when rates go up and you somehow still pay the old rate.)  I'm not saying to do this to get something in return, do it because it's nice and a great thing to do. 

Finally, if despite these rules, you are unhappy with your hairstyle, don't whine and moan. 

Give it a few days then call your hairstylist and come in to discuss it. 

It took three cuts before I got my perfect Carmen Kass hair of my dreams. Be specific about what you don't like and what you expected. You may find out that your hair texture isn't right for the blunt cut in the photo or that you'll need to grow out your bangs for a few weeks. (I swear I had several months of Steven Dillon just waving scissors over my head and telling me to come back in 10 weeks as he was waiting for my short hair to grow out enough for a really great cut.) Your hairstylist should fix your hair at no additional cost or explain what can or can't be done. If you're still unhappy, then ask how you might have been more specific in your requests and go elsewhere. 

It's just hair. It's not a kidney - it will grow back. 

And who knows? That haircut that you hate might just be the best look for you ever! 

Change can be unexpected, but that doesn't mean it's wrong. Look back at photos from 2007 - that was five years ago! Does your hair look exactly the same? Then you need a change. It could be subtle - highlights or lowlights, center part to side part, an inch longer or shorter - but make a change. Your face, your wardrobe, your lifestyle has changed over five years, so should your hair. 

Do you think Ellen Pompeo's Meredith Gray would have landed Dr. McDreamy if she'd stuck with her high school hairdo all these years? I don't think so!

Heat wave beauty survival kit!

As I write this, I'm sitting between two fans in my New York apartment, wearing a linen dress that could be mistaken for a nightgown were it not navy blue, without a stitch of makeup and with a headful of barometer hair (it increases in size as the humidity rises!).

So why do I think I should dare write about beauty essentials? Because I'm not going out in public like this!

First things first - SUNSCREEN. I have two favorites.

Dermalogica Solar Defense Booster SPF 50. This stuff is genius. You can wear it full-strength under your foundation/over your moisturizer OR add it them to up their SPF. UVA and UVB protection.  No fragrance or color. Now remember, you need 1/4 of a teaspoon of sunscreen to adequately get the coverage promised. And adding it to your moisturizer or foundation will dilute its strength a bit. But still, awesome stuff.

Peter Thomas Roth Instant Mineral SPF 45.  Here's the thing about sunscreen for faces - you start off the day very diligent with your protection, but hours later, are you really going to mess up your makeup by slathering on another layer of lotion? No. That's where this magic wand comes in - toss it into your makeup bag or your purse then throughout the day, give it a shake and brush on a layer of invisible powder. Even my derm was impressed that it protects against UVA and UVB rays. And on hot and shiny days, it helps mattify a bit.  The tube slides up over the brush so you can put the cap back on without messing up the bristles. So clever. Any physical barrier between your skin and the sun will help prevent wrinkles later on, so feel free to layer them on!

FAKE IT RATHER THAN BAKE IT.

St. Tropez Gradual Tan Everday Body Medium/Dark.  Okay, so at $30 a tube, this is twice as expensive as the drugstore variety self-tanner moisturizers but here's what makes it worth the price. No smell, no transfer onto clothes or sheets, no streaking, great natural color and a pleasant moisturizer. I just used this down at the beach in South Carolina and it gave me a wonderfully even, natural tan.  I'd apply it instead of my regular moisturizer after the shower or bath.  It comes in light/medium and medium/dark. I went with the later and it wasn't too dark at all on my fair/medium complexion. There's a face version too but I haven't tried it.

MELT-PROOF MAKEUP For casual daytime makeup, I want something pretty, natural, and fuss-proof. Quick and easy, subtle under glaring summer sunlight.

Makeup Forever Aqua Shadow Crayons Powder shadows can get chalky in hot humid weather --or disappear at the first "glow" of perspiration. Cream shadows can crease. Instead, I've latched onto these nifty waterproof crayons. The pearly pink beige is great all over your lid - they blend nicely with just your finger if you move quickly - then add a deeper copper or brown in the outer corner and/or crease and under your eye. Natural, pretty and it ain't going nowhere, no matter how hot and sweaty you may feel.

Physicians Formula Eye Booster 2-in-1 Lash Boosting Eyeliner + Serum. Can't tell you how much I love this product! Cheap as chips, it is a fabulous fine-tip eyeliner with great color payoff. Just lay the brush against your lashes and even the most fumble-fingered can draw a thin line that instantly makes your eyes look more defined and lashes thicker. Whether or not it's actually enhancing the lash-building product I use at night, I can't say, but it certainly can't hurt.  No smearing, no flaking. I got the dark brown and may have to hit the drugstore for a black one as well. If you want a more defined liner, there's a fatter tipped felt tip version. It's not billed as waterproof but it stayed on until I took it off each night. LOVE.

Maybelline Volum' Express The Falsies Black Drama Waterproof Mascara.  Unlike a lot of waterproof mascaras, this one gives you feathery, separated lashes, and the curved brush gives you curled, flared lashes without a lash curler. The black gives great definition to my skimpy, pale lashes without looking too "done." This is a great product.

Estee Lauder Double Wear Stay-in-Place Flawless Wear Concealer SPF 10 It claims to be water and perspiration-resistant and that worked for me on the steamiest days. I've been using tinted moisturizer or BB creams instead of foundation and this just gave me enough coverage for undereye darkness and around my nose. Not full face makeup but fresh and clean. Loads of shades so consider going a bit darker if you have a bit of summer color.

Revlon Photo-Ready Cream Blush These new blushes come in three shades, including a bright hot pink and a gorgeous warm coral. Even if you like a subtle look, a bright blush will look super-natural and keeps a summer tanned face from looking too dark and flat. These add just enough color to enliven your face and have a nice soft sheen. Buildable and easy to apply with fingers or a brush. Super pretty.

Revlon Just Bitten Kissable Balm Stain These are very similar to the Clinique Chubby Stick Moisturizing Lip Colour Balm, but with a much more lasting stain. The Clinique Chubby Sticks are sheerer but don't seem to stay on very long. These feel great, leave a hint of a stain, and have a nifty minty taste. Great colors too. These are flying off the shelves, so grab'em if you can find'em. If you like the Revlon Butter Balms, you'll like these too.

NARS Velvet Gloss Lip Pencil in Mexican Rose.  I have another one of these Velvet Gloss Lip Pencils and I like it, but the color doesn't last too long. A makeup artist at the NARS Bleecker Street store turned me onto Mexican Rose. It's a great hot pink- you can smooth a little on with your finger for a "eating berries with Colin Firth in an English garden" look or use it full-strength. Reapply and it just gets deeper and bolder. And lasts like a tattoo!

This post is long enough without getting into hair products --- I'll save that for another post. But what you'll notice about these products - with the exception of the Dermalogica SPF and the self-tanner - is that these are mostly tubes or pots that take up little space in your makeup bag, whether you're packing for a weekend or a weeklong vacation. Nothing to melt all over your new summer handbag or beach tote -- and because they're so long-lasting, you may not even need to carry them along for touchups!

Happy heat-proof summer!