‘Shmoe-Ette’ on Sly Slips In for a Royal Tint
It was insanely easy to get an appointment with Louis Licari, anointed by numerous fashion magazines as one of the top hair colorists in the world. I expected a long sigh from the receptionist who would say the media darling was booked solid, but maybe they could squeeze me in at the end of August . . . if I happened to be a movie star.
Instead, the chipper voice on the other end said, “OK, when do you want to come in? Next Friday? For single process color? Sure.”
The idea was to visit Licari’s Beverly Hills salon anonymously to see how an ordinary shmoe-ette would fare in the hands of the Hair Color King.
Licari has built a mega-reputation on the heads of stellar clients like Susan Sarandon, Ellen Barkin, Ivana Trump, Jessica Lange and Kim Basinger--all women whose hair gets noticed. He’s had his own salon in New York City for years, but opened a satellite shop in Beverly Hills last April for his growing West Coast clientele. One of his goals, he has said, is to convince women here that there is life beyond Malibu Barbie blond.
On a Friday morning I stepped into the Licari Color Group and was greeted by a smiling young man.
“I have an appointment with Louis for 10,” I say. “Jeannine Stein.”
“OK. Hmmm . . .” he looks at me quizzically. “I can’t read this. Is that Stein or Spine ? “
“Stein,” I tell him, “but I have a spine.”
The salon’s decor is understated but sophisticated, with matte black countertops, black chairs and walls of mirrors. There is no private room for undercover celebs. Looking around I see actress Catherine Oxenberg getting blow-dried. Most of the women seem to be getting highlights ($250 to $350 if Licari does them); they sit reading magazines, bottles of Evian in front of them, with little sheets of foil sticking out of their heads. They look like pretty space aliens.
10:15 a.m.
An assistant named Grace brings me coffee and asks me to fill out a “hairography.” Do I have any allergies or skin conditions? What chemical processes has my hair undergone? Have I done it myself or had it done at a salon?
Things took a different tone on the card’s flip side, which asks clients to sign an agreement that says in part: “It is agreed that should you decide there is any problem whatsoever with the service we provide you, you agree to notify our office manager immediately or . . . in no more than 24 hours following your visit here. . . . You also agree to hold us harmless and release us from all liability for any damage, deleterious condition or other negative effect which may result, or you believe results from the above treatment which as you agree was performed at your specific request and authorization.”
Licari arrives, wearing a white T-shirt, black jeans and the band of his Calvin Klein shorts peeking up over the waistband. His dark brown hair is cut in a modified Caesar with burns.
“Hi, I’m Louis,” he says, shaking my hand. “What are we going to do today?”
I want to stay a redhead, I tell him. He nods (an encouraging sign). The problem is that since my last dye job, the color has faded from its garnet-honey hue.
He feels my hair, peers at the roots: “OK, let’s see if we can kick it up.”
He never says exactly what color he’s going to do, but I’m in the hands of the master, right? So I sit back and go with the flow. I mean, he wouldn’t let me leave the salon looking like a circus freak, would he? . . . Would he ?
10:20
Grace returns with two black plastic cereal bowls. Licari dips a paintbrush into one and intently paints my roots with a clear gel that later turns burgundy-black. Grace coats the rest of my hair with white-ish goo that looks like mayonnaise.
With Licari’s Hollywood connections I figured a session with him would be a schmooze-fest. What I found, though, was a very serious man who keeps gossip to a minimum. Perfunctory but pleasant. I thought I’d get some good dish when I hear him mention Winona Ryder to another client, but it was just talk--no trashing.
When he’s not painting on hair color, Licari is in constant motion, moving from client to client, joking with his staff.
11
After half an hour he comes back and checks my head.
“OK, let’s give her a 739 with an 810,” he tells Grace in hair color code. She leads me over to the shampoo sink, washes my hair, then goes into the back room. More cereal bowls. Licari reappears and slathers the formulas onto my head. “I’ll look at it again in 10 minutes,” he says, dashing off.
11:10
Licari looks at my hair and tells Grace to get a 633. As he works that in he tells her to let it sit three minutes, shampoo, and I’m done.
She also inquires if I’ve made any arrangements to have my hair blow-dried, or if I’m going to do it myself in the salon. (Licari’s $75 single-process coloring charge doesn’t include a cut or blow-dry.) I decide to go it alone, and she sets out brushes, gel and hair spray.
Suddenly, I’m painfully aware of being under the critical gaze of people who do this for a living. A wave of hair paranoia washes over me and I know the stylists are whispering about what a geeky job I’m doing. I try not to look around too much and concentrate on sweeping my shoulder-length hair into a modified TV news anchor ‘do.
11:20
Licari returns just as I’m attempting a Faith Daniels-esque flip (and doing a hideous job), and asks how I like the color.
“It looks great,” I say. The rich, coppery color is more in the brown/amber family than my previous color, which had a strawberry red tinge to it. The color looks natural, not fake-y, and it has a good shine to it.
“Good!” he says, grinning. “I think it looks great.”
And then he’s gone.
11:45
I pay the $75, tip Grace and go.
In the daylight the color looks vibrant, but not shocking.
Co-workers seem to like it, but a couple of them squint and ask, “Is it that much different from your other color? Hmmm. Maybe it looks a little darker.”
My boyfriend stares at my head for a moment. He liked my previous color better.
I call Licari a few days later and confess what I’ve done.
“So you were undercover!” he says, laughing. Now he really wants to know how I like it.
