Scary hairy

Originally published 8/31/09

When I was 12, I got a horrible spiral perm. One tragic day, I went to bed with wet hair. The next morning, I combed it out, using no balms or gels or serums or, heck, I would have even benefited from squirting straight lotion on my head. The result: I looked like a lion that got stuck on an electric fence.

So I share the sadness and stress of this poor runway model, pictured at right, who obviously also got a bad spiral perm and slept on it and forgot her balms at home.

Equally as tragic is this poor lass, pictured at left, also from the Hair Fashion Show in Sao Paulo on Wednesday. She obviously tried the lotion trick, but ended up looking like a member of the Misfits.

(AP photo)

When style comes as a surprise

Not us, but basically. Photo by Flickr user bowler1996p.

My unsuspecting parents. It was getting late, so they thought they would just head upstairs and get ready for bed.

Ah, my poor, unsuspecting units. Little did they know what lurked at the top of the stairs, poised and ready to press play at the slightest creak of the staircase.

My mom was about halfway to the landing when the boom box exploded, "You ready, Ron? I'm ready. You ready, Dave? I'm ready."

I heard her slippered feet freeze, not in shock, because my friends and I pulled stunts like this all the time. Her pause was one of resignation. Sigh. Bedtime was still at least one hour and two intermissions away. And she was too polite to ever reject one of my "performances."

Girl, I must warn you.

My Bell Biv Devoe cassette-single streamed poison-y awesomeness across the stage, er, stairs, as Renee popped out from behind the curtains, er, old Smurfs sheet. She was sporting (a verb I learned in my Barbizon modeling course) an oversized Mickey Mouse T-shirt, cinched (thanks, Barbizon) with a cherry-apple (a unique fruit hybrid) belt, to reveal shiny black Spandex shorts.

As with every one of my impromptu fashion shows, today's extravaganza featured a special appearance by Rudi The Wonder Dog, whose poodle tail sagged with embarrassment and annoyance, only matched by the audience's.

And how convenient: I had placed a fully charged video camera only inches from where my mom's feet stopped. She could capture this glory on tape and re-watch it with her eager daughter 10 to 35 more times in the upcoming week.

Water-proof fashion

I am an earth sign, for Pete's sake.

That's my excuse as to why I've never been a fan of water. And by "not a fan, " I mean I used to be terrified to splash water on my face because I thought I was going to suffocate.

Maybe my water terror stems from a past life. More likely, from watching Stephen King's "It" at a young age in my friend's basement. Every horror flick -- "Psycho, " "Arachnophobia, " "From Dusk Til Dawn" -- seems to have a creepy shower scene.

So don't blame me that my skin care regime was a little less than spa-worthy until I got into college. In fact, I used to wash my face (but not eyes or I would be blind) with isopropyl alcohol.

You may know of what my father affectionately called IPA for its ability to remove hot glue and disinfect hospital needles. But as an antiseptic, it also kills all kinds of bacteria and fungi, which left my skin all but zit-free, even in puberty.

My father -- who also washes his hair with the same bar of soap he uses for showering, cleaning his hands, the dishes, the car and the counters -- introduced me to IPA. It worked as an almost-viable skin treatment, if you could get over the violent burning sensation, and the way it dried out my flesh to the point that I developed scales.

As I got older, I learned that a murderous clown was not going to crawl out of the drain, and I also learned that there were many other (non-burning) options to skin care.

There are many household objects you can use on your face (and I`m not talking about Drano).

Denver stylist Jenece Amella (www.stylesbyjenece.com) offers these summer skin care tips:
Strawberries -- If you`re sunburned, these are a great bleaching agent for hyperpigmentation and freckles. Throw strawberries in the blender and add some honey to help it stick together. Apply the strawberry mush to your face like a mask. It will sting a little (hey, I`m used to that), but it`ll reduce redness. Be careful if you have sensitive skin.

Tomatoes -- If your sunburn stings, pop open a can of tomatoes and spread them across your face. The acid in the tomatoes alleviates the burn. Amella learned this trick in Costa Rica.

The Twirl Factor

Not me. My petticoat was bigger. Photo by Flickr user Penelope Felicity.

My family nearly disowned me the Easter of 1990. I decided to wear a 12-layer pink petticoat to church.

My 10-year-old brain thought it looked royal. The mutha of all ballerinas. Plus, the slip had incredible twirl action, rivaling a helicopter blade when I got going.

As the fashion horror story goes, we were late (I was probably busy spinning), and, of course, the only open seats were in the front row. I remember walking through the tight aisle, the itchy tulle of my massive skirt scraping the bodies I pushed past. The shuffle was loud enough that the pastor stopped and waited for us to sit (which took awkwardly long because I couldn’t find the pew).

My mom looked physically ill. And now that I think about it, we never returned to that church.
Some people just don’t have an appreciation for the Twirl Factor.

The tale of the gold yard man-thong.

And now I present: the tale of the gold yarn man-thong.

I was 12, and therefore generally angsty, constantly bored and angry for no reason. And stuck at my grandparents` house in some Midwestern town with more cornfields than radio stations.

Not that I didn`t adore my grandparents and the copious amounts of bacon and chocolate malts that they showered upon me. But the energy level of their house was comparable to watching the public access channel at 3 a.m. when it features the month`s senior lunch calendar on repeat. Mashed potatoes, beef stroganoff, peach cobbler -- again? Gosh darn it to heck!

It was in the 12th "Wheel of Fortune" rerun that I picked up crocheting.

My grandma had pyramids of yarn, and that mini sickle that looks like a dental tool, and endless patience for my teenage moaning. She taught me rows and corners. Rows and corners. Suddenly, I had brilliantly engineered a baby blue potholder. Wow. Probably this was my calling.

Fueled by my new purpose in life, as well as the lack of knowledge of how to stop the rows and corners, my potholder grew into a bib. Then a tablecloth. Then a blanket. I couldn`t stop. Holy stroganoff, I was going to crochet a floor rug for my school gymnasium.

That`s when my brother and his friends caught me.

Compelled by unstoppable instinct to mock everything I did (even if I was totally going to land in the "Guinness Book of World Records" and they weren`t, so there), they laughed. And pointed. And taunted, "What are you trying to crochet? A floor rug for the school gymnasium or something?" (As if it wasn`t obvious.)

But I wasn`t going to be the victim. No. I would overcome their insulting rhetorical questions that were adding to my general angst. So I stretched my skills and twisted my abilities, toiling for at least eight minutes, until I created it.

"I crocheted you a special gift," I said sweetly, tossing my creation toward the gaggle of 10-year-olds.

Underwear.

No, a gold man-thong. The boys screamed and ran away, yanking out their hair and punching themselves in the face in horror. Because nothing -- nothing -- is worse than underwear. From. Your. Sister.

No one has ever jacked with my crocheting again.

Although I`m still not done with that 2,000-by-2,000 rug. Or the biggest man-thong in the world. Maybe I should ask my grandma how to tie off a loop.

Or maybe I should pick up a new hobby.

Style that keeps on giving

Last week, I wrote about giving when it's not expected. This week, we're talking about giving when it is expected -- when it's long, long overdue.

First, there's the tale of Tami and the trendy shirt. I was in seventh grade, at the height at the height of bangs. For the first day of school, my mom bought me the sweetest shirt at the then-sweetest store, 5-7-9. Good ol' mumsy worked in a consignment store, so it was a Huge Deal for me to get a new shirt. It even had tags. I was stoked.

The shirt was a quasi-crop-top button-down that tied in the front. On one side, it was polka-dots. The other was striped. The sleeves were sheer and poufy. The ultimate hotness for the early '90s.

Naturally, my friends were jealous, so it came as no surprise when my best friend, Tami, asked to borrow it.

A month went by. Three. Now we were in eighth grade. Halfway through the next school year, she gave me the shirt back.

By that time, was out of style. It went straight to the consignment store.

A few weeks ago, I was cleaning out the garage, and I found a mysterious blue duffel bag. I dusted it off, looked inside and gasped.

I called Tiffany. She had been my best friend in college. I asked her to meet me at the Irish pub between our houses; I had something crazy to show her.

When I handed her the bag, she didn't recognize it at first. After all, it had been at least five years since our road trip, when I borrowed her duffel bag packed with jeans, a sleeping bag, jacket and several shirts.

Tiffany wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused. When she pulled out her old designer jeans, I realized it had been long enough that they had already gone out of style -- and come back into style again.

I insisted it was a blessing in disguise that I'd kept her bag so long; otherwise, she would have sold the jeans and had to buy them back again.

Then she unpacked a shirt. It had sheer sleeves, like the kind that was cool in the early '90s and came back into style in the early 2000s, and then was once again uncool.

Hello, karma. Not to mention a statement on the circle of fashion.

I bought her a few beers as an apology. When she was nice and tipsy, I reached into the duffel and swiped the shirt. I brought it home and decided to send it Tami, who lives in California, where the shirt is already probably cool again. Then, I deducted, by the time I get it back to return to Tiffany, it'll be circa 2012 and it'll be hip in Colorado again.

Call me a fashion genius. Call me a matchmaker.

You can thank me later.

Put a legging up

3/2/2006

I am demoting myself from this fashion column because I am wearing leggings.

These spandexy snakes re-emerged on the runways as this spring’s new-old look. I swore I wouldn’t do it. There are some ’80s looks that should not return, I said.

I was so serious, I chose to suffer a numb buttocks region rather than touch biking shorts on a 10-day bike trip this summer.

Here’s why: It’s Aimee Heckel, age 9, posing in front of my mirror, sporting an oversized B.U.M. T-shirt, poufed like a mushroom over a wide black belt. Aqua Netted bangs ratted like weeds reaching toward the sun. Keds smothered in puff paint and accented with a rare New Kids On The Block “I love Jordan” button one could only acquire at the concert.

On my bottom, lacy leggings. White. They blended in with my legs so I looked like I was running around with no pants on under my mushroom orb.

Oh, the image still haunts me.

Needless to say, I became ill when I saw the bane of my youth prance down the runways as one of About.com’s top 10 looks from Fashion Week. Style.com called them one of this year’s “must-haves.” Pair them with equestrian-style boots, knee-length shorts or a mini, the fashion gods advised.

Alas. I found solace as I glanced out my office window onto Pearl Street at the timeless parade of Birkenstocks and khaki pants.

“Never here,” I thought. “I am safe in Boulder.”

Fast forward like two days. I visited my sister-in-law in London. Immediately I was bombarded with leggings dancing along Oxford Street. The runway style was reality.

There I stood in Piccadilly Circus shivering in a long wool coat and nine – yes nine – shirts, when I saw group of British hotties chatting nearby wearing tank tops, heels, leggings and mini skirts.
At first, I scoffed that the icy wind must’ve funneled through those girls’ ears and frozen their common sense.

But the next morn, obviously also a victim of the brain-numbing weather, I went straight to Harrods and bought my own mini. Tried to wear it, but when I stepped outside, all of my leg hair instantly grew back from the cold.

I could’ve just changed into pants. But instead, in the name of fashion, I mustered my strength and took on my childhood demon. I turned myself into a spandex centaur.

Back in Boulder with wide-open eyes, I started to notice leggings everywhere. In Urban Outfitters, in American Apparel on Pearl Street. No doubt, Boulder was not immune.
So here I sit. Aimee Heckel, age 26, sporting a green button-up shirt secured by the same belt I wore oh so long ago. I dug it out of my costume box when I realized wide belts, too, had been given a second chance.

No more Aqua Net or Keds, despite their “hip” new spokeswoman, Mischa Barton of “The O.C.”
On my bottom, leggings. This time they’re black so they won’t blend into my legs. And anyway, I’m wearing a skirt. Not that you can see it.

Photo by Flickr user Dirty Bunny.