Berlin is doing weird things to my hair. When I wear it down, it's like a small brown bear clambered onto my head and died.
Kinda matted. Kinda crispy.
The water is HARD.
Might be time to hit the conditioner, hard. Might also be time for a haircut. Desperately so. Hello, Eli, of the Hiro Haraguchi Hair Salon in the Meatpacking District, will you please hop a flight to Berlin, pronto?
And Ala, of Anastasia Brows at Sephora on 5th...
And Amy, of Jade Nails on 96th...
And any Romanian facialist, of Exhale Salon on Central Park South...
Please. My beauty regime is plummeting. Hard.
This is the problem with (non-celebrity-status) travel. You get ratty fast, you have no beauty crew to fix you, and it is simply too dangerous to march into any old Friseur. You could walk out with the infamous Berliner haircut: lots of layers that look good for a second, then grow out into a mullet-like mass.*
My fashion standards are also slumping: I have not worn shoes other than orthopedic Mephisto sandals for 11 days. Instead of my red leather purse, I carry a black messenger bag. In place of my cropped Juicy jeans jacket, it's a black vinyl anorak.
If I return home a strange amalgamation of Frida Kahlo/Stevie Nicks/April Lavigne, do not be alarmed.
*Source: Time Out Berlin 2007
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