__Elaine D’Farley, beauty director__I’m notantiaging; I’m into aging well.
After all, I’m not broken.
But for me, Botox falls in the aging-well category.
It seems less extreme than a lot of other cosmetic measures.
Remember when people whispered, “Does she or doesn’t she?”
He told me not to get Botox under my eyes because they wouldn’t move when I smiled.
He’s not anti his age either.
But one morning I gave in to temptation.
The surgeon pointed out my hooded eyes, falling brow, sagging chin.
He then described all the easy things he could do for me.
Moments later, Dr.
I don’t want to offend the doctor or imply I know more than he does.
Afterward, I crept to the elevator holding ice packs to my swollen face.
Not my brow, my forehead or anywhere around my eyes.
My under-eye circles were actually more pronounced, like dark muddy puddles trapped under ice.
Instead of many expressions, I had one: blase.
I was so self-conscious, I ended up telling everyone what had happened.
It took a few months before people started saying how exhausted I looked.
And I was relieved to hear it.
My old face was coming back!
I want my husband to say, “You look gorgeous!”
Not “You look” and struggle to find a word.
Beth Janes, senior beauty features editorIt all started with Nicole Richie.
Bored by my long layers, I became obsessed with her side-swept bangs.
They are so chic, so diagonal.
But who would cut my bangs?
(Every job has perks.
Mine includes pros who offer to save me from split ends.)
“I’m thinking about bangs,” I said.
A week later, sitting in the stylist’s chair, I asked her about trends.
Bangs and blunt cuts are in, she said, foreshadowing the horror to come.
I then proceeded to ignore more of my oft-given advice: See examples of a stylist’s work.
Be exceedingly clear about what you want.
Bring pictures, draw pictures, whatever.
Reiterate your likes and wants.
I skipped all that.
I thought being a beauty editor was kryptonite against an ugly cut.
All I remember saying was “I want side-swept, angled bangs.”
Richie’s fringe blends gently into the rest of her hair.
On the other side of my part, the hair was angled beautifully, mocking its counterpart.
The two sides seemed to belong to different haircuts.
I lied about how I felt, breaking another rule: Be honest.
But I was embarrassedfor both of us.
I was foolish, and it was a bad cut.
I felt despondent but figured I would learn to style the bangs.
That night, I spritzed, moussed, blow-dried, finger-combed and flatironed.
Before work the next day, I pinned the bangs on top of my head.
Two days later, another stylist told me my bangs were too short for her to fix.
Finally, I changed my part, blow-drying my bangs to the opposite side.
They were almost Richie-esque!
If only that were the happy ending.Richie-esque bangs take time to style, and they get in your eyes.
I’m low-maintenance; the bangs were not.
They work for stars with on-call stylists.
On the red carpet, it’s sexy if hair covers one eye.
At work, the partial view is maddening.
My bangs looked good, but they felt like a forehead toupee.
I escaped ponytail prison only to land in the bobby pin big house.
I won’t stop salon hopping, but next time, I’ll be ready.
I’ve been tucking pictures of Mandy Moore, my latest hair obsession, into my wallet.
And I’ve stared at plenty of photos of ugly, cancerous moles while reporting the latest distressing statistics.
Still, I never ensured the skin I spent time exfoliating and moisturizing was, in fact, healthy.
I wanted to get checked.
And the beauty department is inundated with names of dermatologists.
Now I had to go!
Friends recommended doctors, but I couldn’t get in to see any of them for weeks.
He agreed to squeeze me in.
I proudly told my boyfriend, who is always examining my spots.
“You’ll be there all day!”
I shot back, nervous he might be right.
“Do you think he’ll remove anything?”
I thought, Was that a possibility?!
At the derm’s, I traded my sundress for a paper dress.
During the check, Dr. Beer told me 80 percent of people find their own skin cancers.
Now I felt especially delinquent.
Not only had I skipped the test, I wasn’t doing my homework, either.
I sighed with relief and told him I’d see him next yearand the next and the next.
__Leah Wyar, senior beauty news editor__Colorists are a little like boyfriends.
The good ones enhance your best self; the others make a run at mold you into someone else.
I learned this at 22, when, single and bored with my dark hair, I got highlights.
My friends were into the Rachel-from-Friends cut, but it was Jennifer Aniston’s sun-kissed streaks that inspired me.
So I had my colorist bleach thin pieces in front.
At my next visit, he said, “It’s summer; everyone lightens up.”
I agreed, and the sections got thicker.
Three months later, the foils migrated to the top of my head.
“You’ll look sassy as a blonde!”
Soon I was in his chair every 10 weeks with a full head of foils.
Forget RachelI was on a fast track from Monica to Phoebe.
My colorist’s own bleached hair and Billy Idol obsession should have been red (blonde) flags.
But I didn’t resist the blonding because I felt sexier.
I had also started dating an ex-college crush.
He was enamored of blondes and encouraged a full Pam Anderson makeover despite my strawlike strands.
I found another coloristand a new boyfriend, Rich.
Both men seemed like upgrades.
My colorist wanted to tone down my color, and Rich and I had a deep connection.
He’d known me as a brunette and supported my blonde rehab.
But after a few months, both men got lazy.
He strayed to the arms of a brunette.
I hopscotched to every salon in New York City, yet each colorist only made me blonderand brassier.
But I did meet Nick.
Unlike my previous boyfriends, Nick didn’t want to change me.
He accepted me as the sometimes stubborn, overprocessed blonde I was.
Then a friend told me about her colorist, the owner of the James Corbett Studio.
During our first meeting, he staged an intervention.
“What if we scrapped this whole blonde thing and brought you back to your natural color?”
I hadn’t been a brunette in almost seven years.
And it was winter, when I crave bright, sunny thingshair color included.
Would I feel depressed?
Would I still feel sexy?
Would I feel like me?
I weighed the options and conceded.
“It’s only hair color,” I said.
In seconds, he was painting my head with a tar-colored concoction, and I feltfree!
Within 10 minutes, I had a full head of rich, lustrous, espresso-colored hair.
“I love it!”
I squealed, running my fingers through it.
I felt vibrant, not depressed.
Angelina-style sultry, not unsexy.
I couldn’t wait to show off my hair, especially to Nick.
At his apartment, he greeted me with surprised eyes and a smile.
I love it!"
“You know, you were actually the first blonde I ever dated.
I’m a brunette guy.”
Lucky me: I found not one but two gentlemen who don’t prefer blondeat least not on me.
