Socialites and Golden Boys

The scene backstage at the John Bartlett show could only be described as chaos: television crews running into each other, hair and makeup stylists dodging models’ smoldering cigarettes, and an overwhelmed woman with a clipboard trying to keep tabs on everyone.

But Vidal Sassoon hairstyling guru Peter Grey seemed amazingly relaxed as he coaxed model Gisele’s gel-coated hair into a twisted ponytail. The look of the show was figure-eight chignons with hair weaves that contrasted with the models’ own hair color.

“The natural hair thing,” Grey said, “I’ve had it with it.”

Into Gisele’s dark brown hair he wove a bleached-blond strand.

The effect was very Mrs. Robinson, which was on track with Bartlett’s vision of a dissipated society-lady look.

His collection was inspired by “Grey Gardens,” a 1976 documentary film by Albert and David Maysles about socialites-turned-recluses Edith Bouvier Beale and her daughter, Edith Beale Jr. (both relatives of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis), that blows apart the upper-crust fairy tale.

“Not a lot of people know about the film,” Bartlett said. “It’s kind of 1950s society women gone mad.”

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Puff Daddy, Robin Givens, fashion designer Mark Bouwer and photographer David LaChapelle were among the hundred or so guests who squeezed into Mr. Chow’s midtown eatery the other night for a party to celebrate MAC’s Viva Glam III spokeswomen: Lil’ Kim and Mary J. Blige. (Profits from the sale of Viva Glam lipsticks go to MAC’s AIDS Fund. RuPaul was the face of Viva Glam and k.d. lang of Viva Glam II.)

The soiree, billed as an “intimate dinner party,” was so packed by 9 p.m. that one guest advised her friend: “Stay close to a seat. Those people at the bar don’t have a chance.”

Forget the seat, I was drawn to the six gold-thong-clad male models, covered head to toe in pink and red lipstick kisses. (After a week of staring at models’ perfect bodies, it was nice for a change to see some hunky males.)

The MAC six-pack, on which the smooch marks had been stenciled, looked a tad embarrassed to be standing around letting it all hang out, so to speak. Being the adept party guest that I am, I engaged them in conversation about the gig.

“Once you get used to the concept of the job, it’s OK,” said golden boy Jackie Summers (his real name).

“The hardest part was having a bunch of women put paint all over you,” said model Marty Collins. “We talked about sports a lot.”

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After extolling the virtues of public transportation in my first column from here, I’ll admit I am craving my convertible. It’s cold and dreary, and nobody mentioned that the subway schedules change wildly on weekends.

I waited 45 minutes under 42nd Street the other day, only to hear on the loud speaker what sounded like the late Charles Schulz’s famous grown-up patois “Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah.” What’s that? The C train is not running because of deconstruction?

I sighed. What I would give to be on the Santa Monica Freeway at sunset. To borrow a phrase from Joni Mitchell, “California, I’m coming home.”