Beauty’s where you find it

If, as Madonna (or ‘Madge’ as she’s called here) so wisely instructed us in the 1990s, "Beauty's where you find it," I’m in trouble. I’m struggling to find it here in the wilds of South Warwickshire.

Recently, I came across a rather interesting piece by Tad Safran (“American Beauty?” 11 December 2007) in The Times--my new favo(u)rite newspaper--that really made me think.

Okay, yes, there is no doubt that he was more than a wee bit harsh on the general female populace of Great Britain by labeling them (all) as: “unkempt and lazy about grooming.” Indeed, the words “sweeping” and “generalization” come readily to mind, as do the words “gross” and “exaggeration.” 

However--stay with me--however, Tad’s provocative essay did make me think about US-UK cultural differences in relation to beauty.

First, I hasten to add, I am not referring to the manic, extreme, irrational approaches to beauty that we Americans are (in)famous for. I’m just talking about the standard, runoff the mill, girlie-girl, “nothing-else-to-do-on-a-Saturday-so-let’s-grab-some-sushi-and-get-our-nails-done” approach to beauty, or, as I like to call it “maintenance.”

In his critique, Safran acknowledges, that one source of the US-UK beauty divide is the high cost of beauty treatments in the UK. I say, “Amen, brother!” 

And I would add to that the lack of choice or selection of salons and/or places to have beauty stuff done is another deterring factor. Pull up a chair, sister, I have a laundry list of examples, and I’ve only been here two months!

First off, outside of London and other major cities, as the Italian New Yorkers say, “Forget about it!” 

In the past two months I have been fleeced, ripped off and any other word you can think of to describe being stripped of copious amounts of cash and getting very little in return. 

In New York, in my former little enclave on Bleecker Street, there were 4 nail salons in a 5-minute radius. At my favourite, Gigi Nail (oh girls, how I miss you!), you can get a wonderful manicure and pedicure, what really amounts to a two hour royal treatment, including a short back massage, for $25.00 USD. (That’s a mere £14.96 GBP)

I’d walk away from Gigi Nail feeling like a queen AND a Good Samaritan for leaving a $10.00 tip! So, all in, $35.00 (£20 GBP and change!) 

For the love of Isis, you are lucky – at least in this part of Britain – to find a “nail salon” that will only charge you £35.00 GBP ($57.00 USD) for a slap-shod pedicure, and a haphazard manicure that looks like it has been completed by a 3 year-old! An angry, colo(u)r-blind, 3 year-old.

I'm not exaggerating. A few weeks ago, the D.E.B. and I were going to see David Tennant and Patrick Stewart in Hamlet at the RSC, and I decided to treat myself to a “salon day” (nails and waxing) in lieu of the big evening. 

First, it was a Monday, so most of the salons in the area were closed. Closed? Closed?! What’s that? I’m sure that somewhere in New York City there is at least one nail salon that is even open on Christmas Day! Or at least Christmas afternoon.

I trudged desperately about the town, like a homeless person looking for a place to sleep, and I found one salon that was open. The staff were all very friendly and nice. I really liked them. They made me a cup of tea. 

The only problem was the lack of what in the US would be standard beauty equipment. For my “pedicure” I was placed in an ordinary armchair, and instructed to soak my feet into a Rubbermaid plastic sink bowl. I thought they were joking. 

No electric massage chair, no heated Jacuzzi/whirlpool tub in which to soak my feet and cares away. This was not a “salon pedicure.” This was letting your best friend give you a pedicure in her kitchen, because she’s in her sixth week of Beauty School and needs the practice. That is all well and good, and as a good friend I would do that, if I had a friend who were a Cosmetology student, but I would do it as a favo(u)r, with lowered expectations, and certainly not expect to pay that friend $127.00 USD (£78.00 GBP) for the privilege of being her guinea pig!

I cannot even describe the shambles that was the manicure I received on this occasion. No electronic drying devices were available to dry my nails? Suffice it to say, when the manicurist started blowing on my wet nails herself, I asked for a hair dryer. They, in turn, looked at me in disbelief, and thought I was insane. Of course, my nails were smudged and ruined before I even left the building. What a complete and utter waste of time and money.

I can’t even begin to decry the saga of trying to find someone to do a decent wax job! And I don’t just mean waxing of the "Brazilian" or "Hollywood" variety, I mean I can’t even find someone to do my eyebrows decently! 

Back in NYC, I would go to Gigi Nail for a wax treatment (eyebrows, bikini, & etc.) once every four weeks. For some reason, here, I go, get waxed and then need to go back in less than two weeks. So, either, my hair has suddenly and miraculously started growing at a rapidly increased and alarming rate, or the waxers I’m going to are just not up to snuff.

So, two months in and I am well and truly ready to throw in the towel. I am tired of throwing away money, and walking away disappointed. But, I refuse to become in Safran’s words a “lazy, unkempt frump.” Oh no, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to Boots, and spent £12.00 GBP on self-waxing product by Veet.

I was giddy at the prospect of liberating myself of my UK beauty salon nightmare, and trying something new. In this, my new Veet “home waxing and individual crucifixion kit” did not disappoint. It was a new experience, to say the least.

I coached myself somewhat unconfidently through the strange directions: “Heat waxing strips with hands.” Ponderous. I have always had notoriously cold hands, so how does this work then? Should I go and use someone else’s hands? After successfully heating my hands, then heating the strips, I proceeded to smooth the strips into place. Always one to go for a leap into the deep end, I started with the most sensitive area first. 

Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer, blinding pain of trying to rip off the Veet, duct tape-like, waxing strip that was now permanently affixed to my bikini area by what could only have been cement glue. Shedding a single tear, I rolled over in silent, utter agony, with the hope that I would not lose consciousness.  The only thing worse than the pain I was experiencing was the complete humiliation of having to call out for help after finding I had subsequently laminated myself to the bathroom floor.

Beauty is indeed where you find it. And the pursuit of beauty is anything but trivial, for it comes at great price and sacrifice. 

Dreams and visions

Survived my first lecture of the week. 

Forty 16 year olds from Aberdeen at 9:00 AM. 

(Thank God for Starbucks.) 

Prepped for days (okay, hours) to give a bang-up presentation on the stage history of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and all they wanted to do was talk about the fact that David Tennant's performing in Stratford this season -- and who, I might add, is not even in this season's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream...

But heck, what's not to love? And if it gets the kids excited, why not?

David Tennant as Berowne in Love's Labours Lost

Tennant as Berowne with love-interest Rosaline 

(in her gorgeous, gorgeous dress)  played by Nina Sosanya.

Homesick

Busy weekend in Barford …

Thursday: Saw an amazing production of Love’s Labours Lost on Thursday night, at the Royal Shakespeare Company, with the very dishy David Tennant as Berowne. This production reminded me why I love, love, love Shakespeare. And, why I love, love, love David Tennant.

Friday: The big Claridge’s culinary evening at Stratford. We had a super time. I have decided that we need to add a new word to the English language - we need a term for the food equivalent of a hangover. I guess we could say “food hangover.” Well, whatever you call it, that’s what I had. After all that rich food and drink (braised lamb, champagne sorbet, foie gras, cognac and wine with each course) the next day my body felt like my blood was made of treacle/syrup. I couldn’t move. Thankfully, the D.E.B. and I –and our “mates” (Tabitha & Andy and Fiona & Gavin) had all arranged to stay overnight at The Stratford. So we all limped back to the “Strat” and amazingly managed a nightcap before collapsing comatose in our rooms.

Saturday: Even after a Full English Breakfast around noon, I still felt like I was going to die. D.E.B. and I went and collected the Princess Puppy from her overnight stay with our friends, Ewan and Melissa, and their two adorable angel-children, Hannah and Rachel. Came home and crashed. We woke around 7:00 PM, exhausted and STILL “food hungover.” We make a valiant effort to go to Sainsbury’s to gather sensible food, all attempts fail, when I realize and declare that the only real cure to a food hangover is Kentucky Fried Chicken. And I was right. (Just need to add that the thought, let alone the actual sight of a gorgeous English Boy holding a bucket of chicken is enough to make any Southern girl weep for joy.)

Sunday: Panic setting in. Clock running out on prep time for my “Midsummer Night’s Dream Lecture” on Tuesday morning. Too tired to work, want to spend un-comatosed day with D.E.B. Make vain attempt to look like I’m working. Too distracted by D.E.B.’s cute-ness and Classic FM. In the afternoon, 3 PM - off to Newbold Comyn where D.E.B. is performing at a Charity event, “Ramble for Ruby” a benefit for 13 year old Ruby, who has cancer. Sunday evening, back to Stratford College for Diane Ponzio concert.

Diane Ponzio is fabulous! She has this incredible gift of making each person in her audience feel like she is singing to/for them. And she never forgets a face/name. It was so good to hear her last night. She’s a proud, Italian, New Yorker. That accent. It’s been a while since I’ve heard it. But, It didn’t make me feel sad, it made me feel proud. The D.E.B. is a huge Diane Ponzio fan, and the feeling seems mutual. She gave him a huge hug, and let him have a go on her priceless, mahogany Martin guitar. She hugged me, and said: “You did it!”

Diane and I had spoken on the phone while I was still living in NYC. Oddly, though I’d never met her, during our phone call, I felt that I knew her. That she was someone I could confide in and lean on. I’d told her about my then dilemma (soon to be plans) about leaving NYC, leaving NYU to join the D.E.B. in England. “Honey. Do it.” She’d said in that warm, comforting voice. “Do it. He’s a doll. And love is all we got. The rest is just illusion.” There are conversations that change us, and this was one of them for me.

Seeing Diane last night, all I could do was hug her and say, “Thank you.” “Why are you thanking me,” she smiled, “you did it.” With a twinkle in her eye, she teased me: “You homesick? Of course you’re not, you got your 'home' right here next to ya.”

Chaos theory

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine (who adamantly opposed my leaving New York/moving to England) left a poignant message on my Facebook page:

"Don't forget, lovie: wherever you go, there you are. Watch and listen closely for any repetitive speech or behaviour or situation to make sure that all the frustrations you left behind (and behind and behind) are truly location-specific detritus and not stuff you're carrying around with you."

On days like today, I wonder if he’s right. I am just shy of the “2 months in” point, and I have fallen into chaos. I've mentioned the broken tooth – while eating popcorn of all things! – and “the cold,” and the resulting desire for Tylenol. Well, now, all hell has broken loose! 

The cold, turned into a cough, and last night the cough triggered what felt like the onset of an asthma attack – I've had one of these before, not something I’d like to repeat – the D.E.B. dutifully rushed me to Warwick Hospital, where I was seen—within half an hour I might add—by the “Out of Hours G.P. (General Practitioner)” at the Extended Hours Service Centre. No camping out in a messy, noisy, germ-riddled Emergency Room here, thank you very much.  The doctor was very helpful, patient, and cute. But I digress.

It turns out that:

a.) my allergies have gone hay-wire, triggering my asthma, which has been relatively dormant while I was living in New York; 

b.) the “ringing in my ears” is the result of a ruptured ear drum (!?!), caused by an ear infection I didn’t realize I'd had,

and,

c.) I have a cold. 

Dare I ask the heavens, “What else?”

So, here I lie, on a beautiful, Thursday morning, in bed. When I could/should be up and out in my new world: morning prayer at St. Peter’s, walking Lucy across the Barford playing field, taking my body for my 5K loop to Sherbourne and back, &etc.

And of course, our bodies pick the worse possible timing when it comes to being ill. I have a long week ahead. Tonight, the D.E.B. and I have tickets to see David Tennant (the current Dr. Who) in Love’s Labours Lost at the RSC. These tickets are GOLD DUST! We have fabulous seats—thanks to my connections at the Shakespeare Trust—and there I shall be, hacking away, trying not to bring up a lung in the front row. Brilliant.

Today is also the day when I should be making an appearance at The Shakespeare Institute, at the weekly “Thursday Seminar,” a.k.a. weekly “Shakespeare Schmooze Fest.” Tomorrow night, the D.E.B. and I are carousing with friends at a culinary event, “Claridge’s Night,” at Stratford College. What a joy my fellow diners will have with me sputtering over their foie gras.

Festivities continue through the weekend. Sunday, D.E.B. is performing at a charity event in Warwick (He is a darling, truly.) and in the evening we are going to see American folk diva, Diane Ponzio in concert in Stratford.

I am grateful to have such an active and full social life. And I am even more grateful that the D.E.B. has friends that are actually, really wonderful, and whom I actually, really, honestly like and enjoy!

My stress and angst are down to my own poor planning. I am scheduled to give two, separate, Shakespeare lectures in Stratford next week on Tuesday and Thursday. I have known about both of them for quite some time. Am I prepared? Am I ready?       

I think the word Gordon Ramsay uses is “shambolic.” If “procrastination” were a country, I would be its Queen. My upcoming lecture at The Shakespeare Institute next week is only the most significant lecture of my academic career. Why not wait until the week before to flip out, and panic about it? Oh, yeah. And then, get sick.

Perhaps, some things don’t change, no matter where you are.

 

 

Autumn rain

1st of October. Autumn pitching down on my nearly-dried laundry. The day started so sunnily. What happened? And so, too, I feel my confidence waver and wane. 

I am scheduled to give a lecture at The Shakespeare Institute in 3 weeks time. This is not just any lecture for me. This is a "Thursday Seminar" at The Shakespeare Institute. "Thursday Seminars" were a huge part of my life not so long ago, when I was graduate student there. I can't believe I received my Ph.D. 10 years ago this year. Has it really been 10 years? And here I am, back again. Here is the thing, you know those old sayings, like the one Janis Joplin is said to have coined: "You can never go home." And, another in the same vein: "Never return to the scene of the crime."  That's how I feel about giving this lecture. I'm not ready. I don't feel "old" enough or "grown up" enough to do it.

I still feel like that hopeful student I once was, longing for acceptance and approval. Wanting to prove my worth, my smarts. When I was a student, Thursday Seminars were a pleasure and a pain. If we were lucky, our director, Stanley Wells,  had roped some Shakespeare hot-shot to come and talk to us. I will never forget how on one occasion he'd invited Harriet Hawkins to speak. Harriet Hawkins was--and probably still is--this sassy, American scholar-diva. She was tall, blonde, and gutsy, with what I think was a broad Texan accent.  The title of her lecture was "Classics & Trash." Awesome. So American. The kind of woman that makes an Englishmen swoon.

I admired her. And wish I could find that kind of courage now. I mean, I've had it before, I used to teach at NYU, for goodness sake! If that doesn't take balls, I don't know what does! But this is different. Like presenting a lecture before your family--and I have a highly critical family.

I want most of all to make a good showing. To confirm my status and place as a Shakespeare scholar and performance historian. I am torn between talking about my experience seeing an amazing production of Othello in Alaska last April, or pulling together some thoughts that I've had about the final moments of Hamlet, inspired by two recent productions I have seen both here in Stratford (with David Tennant and Patrick Stewart) and at Shakespeare in the Park in  NYC. Either would be fine, but I want to be better than fine. I want to be excellent. 

So, instead of knuckling down and pinning down exactly what I am going to talk about, I am focussing my energy on worrying about what to wear (Oh, how I miss J. Crew); unpacking the countless boxes that have just arrived from New York; and watching the rain...