A lot of Southern women have a knack—maybe even a gene—for primping. Doing hair and make-up is not just a necessity in their daily schedules; it's a joy. I am not one of those women. I am Southern, but I missed out on that gene. Much to my mom's and sister's dismay, I don't like to fuss over hair, and wearing make-up means slapping on a coat of mascara (from Dollar General) and a coat of lip gloss, preferably clear.
I do like fashion, though. I can spot a Chanel trench coat or a pair of Kenneth Cole heels among a menagerie of discounted leftovers at Marshall's. I love a deal, and this year I snagged a sweater at The Gap for 3 bucks. I shop at outlet malls with no shame; I can't remember the last time I paid full price for anything. My style is comfortable, usually plain but neat, and hardly ever trendy. I've stuck to this fashion formula since I could drive myself to the mall, so when I got word of a possible makeover opportunity for this issue, I volunteered myself without much thought. I also volunteered my co-worker John Spragens, not because he's a desperate fashion victim, but because he's stuck in the post-college rut—i.e., he wears sneakers with everything.
My sister and I set out into the city to find a trendy boutique—a place stocked with this year's biggest trends: capelets, low-rider jeans and embellished tank tops. For this makeover, nothing except designer duds would do. We landed at Flavour and talked to owner Aimee Johns about creating a hip "out on the town" look for me since, nowadays, I hardly ever dress up—work is ultra-casual, and when I go out I'm going to music shows and I stick to my favorite black shirt and jeans.
After trying on a menagerie of dainty sequined tops, a black halter dress and a sexy silk Victorian blouse that seemed like a good idea but wasn't, I decided, with the encouragement of Johns and her assistant Amy Adams, on a see-through black tunic with a thousand beads revealing a black camisole and a pair of low (I mean low) rider jeans that would've made Britney Spears proud. We added a pair of black stiletto heels (yikes!) and drop earrings. As I looked in the mirror, I thought, I'd never wear this; it's perfect.
Next we located a topnotch hair and make-up stylist: Courtney Krampf of Salon Ya-Ya. She styles local rock stars like The Features and The Pink Spiders for photo shoots, and if there's anyone in Nashville who could make me and my boring hair hip, it was Courtney.
Before she got to work, it was time for the "before" photo. It wasn't until then that I remembered I hate having my picture taken because I'm naturally unphotogenic. I missed out on that gene too.
Courtney impressed me first with her knowledge of all things hair and makeup, her enthusiasm for making me over (which at times exceeded mine), and her willingness to give me a practical but bad-ass cut and color. She went with updating my over-grown bob and kicking up my naturally brown hair color with highlights of blonde, red and golden brown. Along the way she gave me tips on blow-drying (do it) and styling (do it too) that I've actually tried. The changes seemed subtle at first, but my hair was no longer boring. Crisis averted! I even kind of enjoyed the professional primping.
The makeup application, on the other hand, tested my patience. Unlike my sloppy mascara and lip gloss application, Courtney skillfully applied more makeup on my face in an hour than I've ever applied in my life. She contoured and covered, blushed and brushed, one time using a paint brush. While she artfully worked, I could appreciate the craft, now realizing why they call them makeup artists, but it was tiresome. I don't know how the supermodels deal with it. Finally, she was finished and it was time for the photo shoot.
Standing in front of the camera, I felt a little ridiculous with my 10 layers of makeup—like a Tammy Faye Bakker look-a-like. It was an unnatural state for me; usually I hide, but in front of the camera I put on my best look-at-me attitude. After a few shots I had a style epiphany: I felt smokin' hot, mostly thanks to the jeans—my butt looked great in them. After I thought through this style epiphany, I realized I could stand to change up my tired fashion formula; after all, I didn't want this makeover to be in vain. As I awkwardly puckered my lips and rotated my hips for my final fashion pose, I decided I could handle a little fuss, maybe even a little tinted lip gloss. And as for the low-low rider designer jeans, well, maybe they'll go on sale.
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