I think Newman's "Partially Used Q-Tip, or "PUQT" style best represents disco-era hairdos.

Why, when so many advancements have been made in hair-product technology, does no serum, pomade, spray or mousse ever make a lasting effect?  They all say they'll work, citing breakthrough ingredients and technology, and I try them all with fingers crossed, and it's no use. Why are we still enslaved to the elements? I'll tell you why. Because you really can't fight Mother Nature, that's why. But still I push forward, soldiering on in my tireless quest for frizzless tresses, ignoring the facts, hoping, as is my wont, for the magic.

  The brilliant Ms. Radner's usual style was closer to the PUQT than the iconic, boldly geometric "Roseannadanna" shown here. 

                                                                   
To that end, starting today I will try a new product. It's called Nexxus Sleek Memory Straightening Smoothing Spray, and it promises to "train" the hair to become smoother every time you use it, due to a timed-release system of delivering silk amino acids, avocado oil, vitamin E and glycerin into the hair shaft continuously throughout the day. It also contains wheat, just in case you're allergic or sensitive; hair is very similar to skin in its composition, and it is quite possible to absorb both good and bad stuff through the follicle, not as easily as transdermally, but it gets in there. 

Jane's limp yet frizzy "Disillusioned Housewife" looked the least explosive, but somehow annoys me more because it's so noncommittal. Plus the DH is disappointingly similar to what I'm working with at the moment.

So, I'll keep you posted. I will follow the instructions for use to the letter, use it faithfully, and perhaps this can be the beginning of many beauty experiments. If you would like me to try a makeup, skin- or hair-care product, service or technique, let me know. I'll do it, man. I'm not messing around.

All photos courtesy of nbc.com

Obviously I stopped to put on some lipstick, but I don't remember using the door; I think I may have left an Arika-shaped hole in the wall in my haste. I knew this package contained nothing I hadn't really seen before, just a bunch of unassuming-looking bottles and jars, but I also knew what I always know with absolute certainty when these boxes are delivered: There is magic inside.

Photo courtesy of Nordstrom.com

For those afflicted, the sound of that vacuum when you open a new jar of moisturizer can elicit sighs of pleasure. My mouth actually waters when I read of the miraculous transformation that will occur when the contents of the jar are massaged into my face or body. Now, I'm not delusional about this stuff. Judging from my experience working with acres and acres of human epidermis, I maintain that at least fifty percent of what your skin ends up looking like is due to genetics, most of the rest is sun exposure (or lack thereof), and there is little scientific evidence to support the idea that it is necessary to spend boatloads of cash to care for your complexion. But I have been a lifelong, willing participant in a love affair with this possibility, the chance that this one might really be magic.

"Hello, Lover," I heard myself whisper as I pulled the chunky, translucent jar of Trish McEvoy Beauty Booster Anti-Fatigue Enriched Cream Primer and Mask out of its crisp, glossy white box. Several weeks later, I am pleased to report that there is evidently magic in here.

It's this amazing cream that can be used as a mask, primer before foundation, or on its own for a really natural, poreless finish. It makes my wrinkles disappear, feels light and fresh and hydrating without being the least bit greasy. My friend Renee, a fantastically gifted makeup artist, t-shirt designer and owner of the most perfect skin ever, turned me on to this stuff. I've found that my clients, from the Saharan to the slick adore the way it works with their skin,  which is really saying something; few moisturizers appeal so universally.

I'm so glad we found each other, I want to shout it from the rooftops. "I can't believe you're mine," I murmured to my little miracle this morning. Perhaps I should get out more...