Facing fabulous stylists is a hairy situation
By JASON ASHLEY WRIGHT World Staff Writer, 11/11/2003
Below & Bottom: Models show off new hairstyles Thursday at the Ihloff Salon and Day Spa show at the Nightingale Theater. Photos by STEPHEN PINGRY/Tulsa World
Vibrant color was the calling card most stylists left on their models' heads at Thursday night's hair show, presented by Ihloff Salon and Day Spa at the Nightingale Theater.
Few things make me more nervous than a stylist.
Like squirrels on power lines. Or Jiffy Lubes with an inordinate amount of fishing magazines.
Few things, that is, unless it's a room full of stylists.
Such was the case Thursday night at the Nightingale Theater, where Ihloff Salon and Day Spa presented its annual fall collection of hair styles.
Out-styling the style guy
Before I offend the scissor-wielding class, let me explain my nervousness.
I've always held stylists in high regard. In fact, I could almost forsake the world of journalism and become a stylist groupie. Alas, I'm not thin enough, and I'm related to people who perm their hair.
Stylists epitomize fashion's cusp - the cutting edge, if you'll pardon the pun. Heck, the word "stylist" is derived from style itself.
Hence the pang of inadequacy as I entered the Nightingale. Apparently, I stood out like a split end because the nice usherette inside with the colorful mop coiffe and fishnet stockings asked, "You're looking for Tracey, aren't you?" I nodded yes, and she pointed past the drawn-curtained entrance to the theater.
Immediately inside was Tracey Norvell, draped elegantly in black with a beaded black shawl - very chic. I, on the other hand, was urban hobo in 2-year-old Kenneth Cole boots with a torn sole and a black leather blazer with scuffed cuffs.
After exchanging pleasantries, I scurried off toward the center aisle when the music began, signaling the show's start. Pad in palm, pen in hand, I was ready to take notes.
This is where my anxiety attack occurred. Actually, it was less an attack than a skirmish, but my nerves were nonetheless racked. The lights grew so dim that I couldn't see to write. But I do remember hoping no one smelled the bruschetta on my breath from the baby shower I left just minutes before.
All the models were sulky - not in a just-got-grounded kind of way but more of a just-realized-I'm-more-fabulous-than-you way. Chad, my favorite waiter from Tucci's, was in the show, his hair tipped in what looked like purplish-pink. Of course, I haven't taken my contacts out in a week, so I'm prone to hallucinations.
Between shows, master designer Kim Freeman, the salon's creative director, walked me through the segments, which were mod, urban and city. The stylists from the salon chose their own models, selected their wardrobes, then were given creative license to style their hair however they wanted, within the broadly interpreted confines of mod, urban and city.
Bless Freeman's heart, she was trying to dumb it down several shades for me, but my hand was cramping, my contacts were cloudy and I had a sudden anxiety skirmish about forgetting to pay my phone bill.
Fashion in the aisles
Later, I crept out from backstage and took a seat for the third showing. Even the audience was more trendy than I was. Like Stephanie Colburn who wore this fun, fringed suede jacket she found in Chicago.
There were coats with fur trim aplenty, as well as leather jackets in various colors. Don't forget all the fantastic hair. Mine, thanks to Mother Nature and a lack of late-afternoon product re-application, resembled a gorilla's arm pit.
Thankfully, the lights dimmed around me again, and I tried harder to pay attention to what came down the little runway.
Color was the most obvious factor unifying the collection, with bright reds, yellows and blues illuminating layered, spiked, sleek and straightened tresses. These weren't looks from Mamaw's beauty parlor. These were straight off fashion's most recent runways.
This is where epiphany No. 17 of the night hit: I'm not wealthy and can't afford Louis Vuitton. It will be much easier for me to shave my head, embrace Catholicism and ask the Pope to let me become a monk. As long as those robes aren't lamb's wool, of course. Merino's the only thing that doesn't make me itch.
Anywho, it was a fun show, as always. No models pulled a Carrie and tripped down the runway like Sarah Jessica Parker's character in "Sex and the City." The models seemed to have more fun with each show, and the audience ate up the avant garde looks, apparel and antics.
Afterward, I exited the theater, reminding myself that it takes all kinds to make the world go 'round -- not just the terminally hip with magazine cover-worthy coiffures but the scuff-cuffed, non-Louis Vuitton owners, too.