Life is short — and my hair is long, thick and frizzy, as if I'm trapped in my own cumulonimbus cloud. Yet until recently, I reserved the only remedy — a blowout — for special events: weddings, opening night at the Met, appearances on "Theater Talk."
Then Nora Ephron died, and amid the tributes came a tantalizing tidbit: For years, she enjoyed twice-weekly blowouts. "It's cheaper by far than psychoanalysis," she reasoned, "and much more uplifting." A light bulb went off over my frizzy cloud: Hadn't I quit therapy? Didn't I just get a raise (a little one)? And what better to blow it on? Now, once a week, I hit Jean Louis David's Midtown shop where, for $25 plus tip, a strong-armed woman named Rosa whips my locks into submission. Friends who've never complimented me before say I look swell, now that I've let my sleek flag fly. Thanks, Nora!
Elizabeth Lippman
Post arts editor Barbara Hoffman cites Nora Ephron (above) as her blowout inspiration.
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