After almost a year together, the relationship ended. It was inevitable. Eventually, the romance died down and the realities of a twenty-nine-year age difference appeared. Terry wanted to have children. And even though I fantasized about being pregnant at fifty-eight by carrying an egg from a donor fertilized by Terry’s sperm, I knew we were meant to go our separate ways.
I was heartbroken when it ended. For one thing, having sex while sober and present is powerful, and it created a profound bond between me and Terry. And I loved him. He was decent and kind. We had fun together. Terry wanted to remain friends. I needed time apart from him. I knew that one day we would reconnect.
I didn’t sign up for a long-term relationship when I met Terry. My therapist made sure of that. Stay in the moment. You’ll know when it’s time to move on. It took me two years to get over Terry. Two years of reading poetry by Mary Oliver, two years of mourning over this young man.
I saw Terry again, four years after our relationship ended. He’d been “booked” in a play on Broadway, and I went backstage to say hello. He told me he was married and had a son. It’s what he always wanted. Just recently I heard that he moved to Los Angeles and had given up acting. He’s a fireman now. I love that. I hope he’s happy.
As for me, I’m open to love again. I pray it doesn’t take another fourteen years. But if it does, I still have several alpaca sweaters to knit for my sons.
My Mustang Convertible
On an April morning in 1992, at 10 a.m. in broad daylight, I was held up at gunpoint in front of my house in Pacific Palisades, California. Pacific Palisades is a sought-out and, for most people, financially prohibitive, affluent neighbourhood snuggled between the more trendy Malibu and the diversely populated Santa Monica. It is serene, relaxed, and beautiful, if you’re a Stepford Wife. Families with children love it. Little leagues abound. The air is clean because of the proximity to the ocean. There are churches on every street corner, and AA meetings in the corners of every church. But seldom do you see a person outside walking anywhere, or for that matter, outside at all.
I had just driven home after hiking for an hour and had parked my red Mustang convertible on the street in front of my house. I sat in my car while I listened to a pop song on the radio. I can’t remember the exact song now, but I’m sure it was about a breakup, and it was sad and schmaltzy, the kind of gut-wrenching song I can listen to for hours. Don Henley’s “Heart of the Matter” comes to mind. Whatever it was, I was singing along at the top of my lungs, drowning out my sorrows because of my own recent depressing breakup with a young and heart-stoppingly adorable boyfriend, and didn’t notice a car had pulled up a few feet in front of mine. When I finally did look up, I saw a well-dressed young man, maybe eighteen or twenty years old, walking slowly toward me. He was smiling and seemed friendly. His companion waited by their car.
He approached my open window.
“Hi,” I said cheerfully, like the spokesperson for the Pacific Palisades chamber of commerce. “What can I do for you on this fine day?”
“I like your car,” he replied.
“Well, thank you,” I said. “I like it too.”
“I really like your car,” he continued.
“Well, thank you. That’s so nice of you to say.” I was about to ask him into my house so I could draw him a map to the dealership when I sensed something was wrong.
I started to close the window, and as I did, the man pulled out a gun. He stuck it through the opening and pointed it toward me, a few inches from my head.
“Get out of the car,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“Get out of the car, now.”
Wait a minute. This is crazy, I thought. Why is he raising his voice at me? What’s going on? What have I done? I was just being friendly, and now I was about to be on the evening news, the local evening news, but how bad could that be? I was in show business, after all, where any PR was good.
The young man held his gun to my head as he motioned to his buddy, who then menacingly walked toward us.
It was like a scene out of CSI or Law and Order: SVU or any of those episodic crime shows that I had never been cast in but had watched enough to know that had I been hired to play the girl in the Mustang convertible, my guest star arc was about to be over. These guys were not house hunting in the Palisades. They were not out for a morning drive. They were not lost. They did not need directions to the nearest Gelson’s to buy chicken tenders and barbecued ribs. They were not selling chocolate bars to raise funds for their high school prom.
They wanted my car and, it seemed, were willing to kill me to get it.
I opened the door calmly and stepped out, and as I did, I noticed my Starbucks grande latte on the dashboard.
“Excuse me,” I said politely. “Would you be kind enough to hand me that cup of coffee? I don’t want it to spill all over my leather seats.” That morning before my hike I had taken my Mustang to the Palisades car wash, where it was hand-cleaned and polished. “Detailed” in car-wash speak. It looked brand new, the tires sparkling, the dashboard smelling like California lemons just picked from a neighbourhood tree. It made me sick to my stomach to think that in a matter of minutes, my seats would be stained and soiled by my freshly brewed Ethiopian dark roast.
Shockingly, the gun-toting but accommodating car thief opened the door and obediently handed me my lukewarm skim latte. It was then that I saw my purse in the passenger seat. The next two hours flashed before me. I thought of all the phone calls I would have to make to cancel my numerous credit cards and the multitude of irritating recordings I would have to bypass in order to talk to a real human being, and likely not one with a compassionate ear. Then I’d have to phone and muddle through the bureaucracy of the Department of Motor Vehicles to reapply for a new driver’s licence, even though, in a matter of minutes, I would no longer need one.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” I said. “Can I ask you one more thing? Would you mind giving me my pocketbook? It’s right beside you.”
At that point, the second obliging hoodlum handed me my purse as he jumped into the passenger seat. Someone had taught these boys manners. I stood holding my latte in the middle of the street in the upscale neighbourhood of the Palisades, and before the director could yell “Cut!” they were off. Yes, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid sped away in my red Mustang convertible and disappeared over the horizon forever.
It was 10 a.m., not a soul was to be seen, no witnesses to the crime, in this godforsaken ghost town. I ran into my unlocked house. I called the police. They arrived a few minutes later.
I told them the entire story. They said I was lucky that I had not been shot.
“Never ever engage in conversation with a person with a gun,” the officer instructed. “You should have given them what they wanted and not said a thing. You were too trusting and naive. That was a stupid thing to do. You’re lucky to be alive.”
That afternoon I had all the locks to my house changed and a $2,000 alarm system installed. I used it responsibly for a couple months but never learned how not to set it off every time I opened a window, so I stopped using it completely.
My Mustang was found a few weeks later in south-central Los Angeles during the Rodney King riots, stripped of anything that could be sold. The young men—not experienced thieves, the cops had told me—had followed me to my home, where they had planned to steal my car, and then had taken it for a joyride and abandoned it. There was nothing left of the car to salvage. It was beyond repair.
Over the years, I have shared this story with a few people, and the first thing they say to me, surprisingly, is not “Thank God they didn’t kill you” but “Never buy a red car. You’re a moving target, for both thieves and cops.”
The next car I bought was an Isuzu Trooper. It was red. I couldn’t help myself. Until I sold it, though, I stayed under the radar. No traffic violations, nor was I ever held up at gunpoint again while someone helped himself to my shiny SUV.
I lo
ved my Isuzu Trooper. It was a roomy, robust, family car and functioned for many years as a carryall for my two growing sons. After my Mustang was stolen, I settled into being a practical mom with a practical car. The days of driving up the coast of Malibu alone in my sexy red convertible when the kids were in school, my hair blowing in the wind, me wailing along with Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody”—those beautiful little escapades were over. That terrifying incident robbed me not only of my Mustang but also of the youthful exuberance that went with owning it.
I live in New York and Toronto now. I no longer have a car. When I visit my sons in Los Angeles, I rent one. I always rent a convertible. Of course, I ask if they have a red one, but they always seem to be out. I load the boys, now in their thirties, into the car and we drive up the coast, laughing and singing and having a glorious windblown time. In fact, no matter what’s going on in my life or theirs, the convertible has always provided us with an instant bond, and an intoxicating distraction.
I miss my car. I miss my youth. I miss being a naive, free-spirited mom.
But I’m grateful. As the cops said, I’m lucky to be alive … but never more alive than when I can get behind the wheel of a red Mustang convertible, pack up all my troubles in an old kit bag, and drive, drive, drive.
Why I Fly to Atlanta to Get My Hair Cut
2013
The day started out uneventfully. That’s what I like when I travel. Unevents. I went to bed early, at 10:30 the night before, so that I could get my delicious seven hours of sleep before the alarm went off at 5:30. I had two cups of coffee, obsessed about what I was going to wear, and then settled on my breathable Lycra pink jeans, hip and yet comfortably roomy, for the two-hour flight to Atlanta, Georgia, where I was travelling that day to get my hair cut. Twelve hours later, I would be taking the two-hour return flight back to New York.
I had the drill down pat. After all, I had been making this trip every six to eight weeks for the last twelve years.
I wore my Skechers backless, slip-on sneakers so as not to take unnecessary time at security, packed my computer in hopes that I’d write a chapter for my book, and carried a little purse just big enough for a passport and a Luna bar. I took the elevator down to the first floor of my apartment building, where at 7 a.m. Raphael, the doorman, hailed me a cab. Within two seconds, one miraculously appeared. There was no traffic on the way to LaGuardia. The taxi driver took a shortcut and I arrived twenty minutes later at Terminal B. There was no line at the AirTran counter or the machine at which I printed my boarding pass; no line through security; no line in the women’s washroom; no line at Au Bon Pain; no line at the gate, where I boarded early; and no line on the runway. Ours was the first plane to take off. There was even an empty seat next to mine. The flight attendants were cordial, gave me three packages of Biscoff cookies instead of the usual meagre one, and no one lowered his or her window shade or slept with earphones on, the loud music leaking out to annoy me. Even the coffee tasted remarkably like coffee. It was a particularly good day to fly. There was not a cloud in the sky, no rain or snow in the forecast. Everything went smoothly. It was a sign, an omen, I thought. The universe was cheering me on. You go, girl. There’s nothing remotely insane about you travelling 881 miles south down the eastern seaboard to get your hair done.
“Get changed,” said the beautiful, petite, smiling Urie, hair assistant extraordinaire.
I lay down on the chaise longue adjacent to the shampoo sink, my little white robe wrapped loosely around me, closed my eyes, and melted into the soft brown leather. After a ten-minute scalp massage by his doting assistant, the master coiffeur, Pascal, appeared and took over. His adroit hands and astute eyes would soon transform my grey roots to a gorgeous Salma Hayek brown, refresh my highlights to a sun-kissed Jennifer Aniston gold, and thin out my layers from a Tina Turner shag to a tousled yet kempt Penélope Cruz. My hair would then be luxuriously blown out. Four hours later I would be back on the plane to New York, and asleep in my apartment by ten. I would be exhausted but feeling beautiful. It was a fair trade-off.
I live in New York and Toronto, but it doesn’t matter where I live, really, because wherever I am when my hair needs to be done, I fly to Atlanta. I have travelled there from Los Angeles in the middle of shooting a TV series, from Seattle in the middle of a tryout of a Broadway musical, from Newfoundland while shooting a film, from Williamstown while performing a play, from Florida while visiting my dad, from Maine while hiking the trails of Arcadia. Regardless of where I am, if it is time to get my hair cut, I board a plane for Atlanta. That’s where my hairstylist lives and works. Pascal Bensimon is his name. Pascal, of Pascal Bensimon Haute Coiffure.
His salon is in a little detached house in a residential area of the conservative, old-money neighbourhood of Atlanta called Buckhead. The salon has four rooms, the walls decorated with colourful, original art from France. It has a working fireplace; a kitchen in which salads and sandwiches are prepared; an expensive espresso machine; freshly grated ginger for hot ginger tea, a specialty of the salon; comfortable brown leather lounging chairs; a computer and printer at one’s disposal; a porch with wicker chairs to sit on while one waits for her colour to take hold; two darling, dedicated young assistants; never more than three or four clients; and Pascal, the messiah, holding court as he cuts and colours the hair of his female devotees. He runs his Israeli/Moroccan/Parisian hands through each woman’s hair, massaging their heads and shoulders, kissing their cheeks, smiling and listening intently to every word they say. Each woman whose hair is caressed and styled by Pascal believes she is the most beautiful woman alive on the planet. He is the Houdini of Hair, and every woman who meets him is under his spell.
I met Pascal at a West Coast spa in 2002. We were both guests during one of its four coed weeks. He was there by himself, as I was. He was adorable, with unruly wavy dark hair that somehow managed to look stylish no matter how much sweat was pouring down his olive skin. He had magnetic charm and an introspective demeanour, and his emotions ran the gamut. He was quiet on the hikes, mischievous in cardio boxing, weepy during yoga, frisky in the pool, shy at dinner. He was mysterious. He stood out at this coed week because he was single and forty. The typical man that came to the coed week came with his wife, and the average age of the couple was sixty-five.
I had been a regular guest at the spa for over ten years and had never met anyone like Pascal. I had hiked, biked, and dined with authors, lawyers, businesswomen, surgeons, entrepreneurs, behavioural therapists, dermatologists, computer scientists, artists, textile designers, psychologists, nutritionists, journalists, gemologists, and philanthropists, but never with a French hairstylist. Pascal spoke with a soft, sensual accent and mispronounced English in the most adorable way. He was fit, and small in stature. Sexy and boyish, and a big, big flirt.
We hiked the first few days together in a group. Then we began to hike apart from the others. We laughed and gossiped. We became instant friends. After four days of getting to know each other, Pascal felt comfortable enough to tell me what he had been holding back: that my hair was a hot mess. A disaster.
“Who cut your hair?” Pascal asked with disgust as he scoured my head. “It is not good. Your colour is too charcoal and the highlights too chunky and it doesn’t match your own pigment and then you look green. You don’t want to look green. You need more warm. Let me make you look beautiful. I have everything with me. Come to my room later and I will make you look sexy.”
His sincerity and confidence, combined with the no-holds-barred surrender of my spa brain, propelled me without hesitation to say yes.
I tell you this because Pascal, a man I had known for only four days, a man who could have been a serial killer, who could have cut my throat instead of cutting my hair, this heterosexual hairstyling stranger, I completely trusted. Alone in his phoneless, carbohydrate-free room, isolated at a spa in the middle of the California desert, I surrendered to the hands of Pascal Bensimon and was given the best haircut of my life. He coloured all fi
fty shades of grey with the artistry of Van Gogh and blew my hair out so full and sexy that Jennifer Lopez would have wept. From that moment on I became his groupie, a devoted fan, a crazy addict.
After my first haircut with Pascal, I trusted no one else to touch my hair. I know it seems preposterous that I couldn’t find an equally good hairstylist in Manhattan, the mecca of sophistication and beauty, but I couldn’t. Occasionally, however, when my work schedule prohibited me from making the twelve-hour commitment to Atlanta, I would be forced to go to a salon in New York. I’d book an appointment with some famous stylist to the stars who came highly recommended, and in good faith I would sit in his or her chair, wringing my hands incessantly and trying to conceal my increasing anxiety. None of the stylists, however, was as invested in the final result as Pascal was. They were indifferent and aloof. And I was intimidated. I would leave the salon enraged at the crazy cost and the inhumane treatment by the stupid Pink-wannabe technicians, and what’s worse, the cookie-cutter matronly hairdo they’d give me. Most of the time, I’d leave looking like Leona Helmsley. I counted the days until I could fly back to Atlanta, where Pascal, my saviour, would restore my roots to their original colour and reinvigorate my confidence to the likes of Nicki Minaj.
My hair obsession was excessive, yes, but like an addict, I was unable to stop. I began to lie to my friends. I told them I was flying to Georgia for work, or visiting an old college roommate, or conducting a master class in acting at a local high school, or doing research at a restaurant chain because I was thinking of opening a raw food café.
Lady Parts Page 5
