Czar was flooded with intoxicating art, people and drinks Saturday for the Heart Show. A DJ spun in every room. Hair models mixed with the crowd, smearing body paint on all they touched. Roman centurions and Greek goddesses styled by Tribeca Salon struggled to stay secured in their togas. A few Derby Darlins skated around the dance floor in neon afros, pulling business cards from bras. Dance groups and musical performers like Bronze wandered around wearing outfits that they'd probably never find a more appropriate setting for. Jay Giroux drew eyes to his canvas with a live painting. Ladies in sparkly clothes danced above the crowd on a catwalk. In a word, the place was happening.
The problem was that neither Emma's nor my name appeared on any of the four door lists being circulated. By my calculations this makes us, at best, F-listers, which might have been a painful realization if my ego wasn't the size of Mount Rushmore. Situations like this usually occur when my boss speaks to one of several event organizers who have a broad philosophy of who gets into a show for free. These good natured organizers often forget to relay such key information as our names to the infinitely more scrupulous door keepers who deal with jerks like me every five minutes, all claiming they're on the list. If only I were talented enough to draw the can of Aqua Net carefully holstered in my man purse and expertly swirl Emma's hair into a coiffure resembling what I imagine Prince's pubic hair to look like, then we'd have no problem passing as stylist and model. But, like any good F-lister, we stood our ground on the unfortunate side of the velvet ropes until two event organizers escorted us in, having mistaken us for serious CL photographers and journalists.
I initially donned a pair of 3D glasses, courtesy of fashion designer Marina Williams, but I was immediately overwhelmed by rainbow flashes bombarding my vision. The portly Senator literally hung out on stage in undersized women's lingerie, and had a dance off with the host of the hair design competition, Felicity Lane. Flouncing around with nipple tassels on giant fake jugglies, Lane had all the guys in the audience whispering to each other, "That's a dude, right?"
The hair design contest was the first of many events at the hair, fashion, art and music show benefiting the James Anthony Ray Sadler Scholarship. The classic-contemporary category featured variations on styles fit for award shows, while the avant-garde class highlighted hair exploding from the heads of nontraditional models. Others poured like decorative fountains frozen in place with enough styling products to kill a herd of mini-horses. The best-in-show award went to a designer who outfitted his model in a skirt made from McDonald's cups and blonde hair sprouting from a McDonald's french fry holder.
It was about this time that I made a startling revelation about myself. I have a thing for gay hairstylists. I am not ashamed to admit this. Hairstylists are always quick to compliment you on your good features, however obscure ("nice shoelaces"), and at events like the Heart Show, models wearing clothes held in place with safety pins and tape are never far behind. Talking up hair designers as a means to meet models is just one of many tricks you must be ready to pull out of your man bag at any time as a serious F-lister.
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This article appears in Mar 5-11, 2008.