Disaster and Despair...

DAHLINGS –

I awoke so unhappy this morning, so desolate, I knew that it was my duty to share it with you, my faithful readers.

Your faithful correspondent has survived divorce, death, and severely horrendous fashion.

However, now I cannot show my face in public for the foreseeable future. The unthinkable has happened.

I have a bad haircut.

A short history: my hair stylist, the ONLY man who could make my abundant locks look their best, disappeared! For years he had been my hair stylist on good hair days and bad. No challenge was too much for him, even when I foolishly tried to dye my hair brunette by myself. (I confess, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but there were far too many Cosmopolitans involved.)

Then, he left the salon he co-founded and took a chair at another salon. Of course I followed, but then, a few short weeks later, he was gone. Wiped from the face of the earth! No response to phone calls, emails, text messages…what WAS I to do? Turbans and scarves could only cover the unruliness on my head for so long.

My first mistake: I took the recommendation of a friend who has entirely different hair than mine. Hers is thin, fine, straight as opposed to my thick, abundant waves of liquid gold.

My second mistake: at the risk of being politically incorrect, I advise you to find a hair stylist whose English is impeccable. I tried to make my wishes known, but it was impossible.

My third mistake: I stayed in the chair. And watched in horror as she hacked away at my crowning glory in large chunks. Then she blow-dryed it so that it bore an unnerving resemblance to my mother’s hair circa 1969.

Words cannot attempt to describe the result. Suffice to say that a friend tactfully commented how brave I was to have a haircut that was so “anti-fashion.” As soon as I arrived home, I rushed past my horrified staff and plunged my head under the shower.

It did not improve the results. Even Bucky, my darling miniature pinscher, barked at me!

I am in despair, dahlings! When one is known for one’s impeccable grooming, a bad haircut is the equivalent of leaving the house not having showered for a week and wearing a Forever 21 dress.

Learn from my mistakes, mon cher amis. If nothing else, I can pass along this devastating experience in the name of knowledge.

In the meantime, I doubt I shall be leaving the apartment, unless I am wearing a hat and dark glasses.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Monday, Bloody Monday...New Postal Rates

DAHLINGS -

As a seller of fabulous plus size contemporary and vintage clothing on (ugh) Ebay, I am often subject to the petty annoyances of the site, about which I have written here.

However, today's newest aggravation comes from another place altogether...our beloved United States Postal Service. They have again raised their rates, and not only that. They have revamped their shipping system. It might as well be in Sanscrit. I did try to read some of the information, but I confess, after ten minutes, I had to lie down and have my maid dab my temples with eau de cologne.

So I sent in my personal assistant this morning to go figure it out and change the listings accordingly at the Bodacious House of Style immédiatement.

You THINK she would be up to the task, I mean, I do pay her to get things done.

Well. I was recovering, reading Meg Cabot's novel Queen of Babble (about which I will be interviewing her in the first week of June), when I heard an absolute BANSHEE WAIL from the direction of my office! I slipped on a wisp of silk chiffon and high-heeled satin mules and made my way down the corridor to see what was up, Bucky at my heels.

My assistant lay CRUMPLED on the floor, sobbing.

"Get up, you ridiculous peasant!" I said as gently as possible. I mean really, this was during business hours. She can have a nervous breakdown on her own time as far as I am concerned.

"I can't," she moaned. "The postage...it's all so...I don't know how to do it...the website doesn't make any sense...please don't make me do this!"

I stared down at her prone form, dressed in a cheap Forever 21 print dress and (ugh) leggings.
"Then you will just have to figure it out," I snapped, and turned on my heel. "And do not get mucus on the Aubusson."

However, as I strode back to my boudoir, I confess, I felt a pang of sympathy for the little idiot. This was such an unfamiliar emotion it momentarily stopped me in my tracks, causing Bucky to bump into me. If I, with my superior intellect, could not understand the new Postal Rates, how could this poor fool?

I returned to the office, where my assistant had pulled herself up to a seated position on the carpet, wiping her nose with a tissue. I quickly inspected the Aubusson for stains but found none. Tres bon.

"Ne vous inquietez pas," I said. "Perhaps my response was a touch harsh. You still have to figure it out. BUT--give yourself some time. You have until your lunch break." I felt quite the gracious lady of the manor, I must confess. I closed the office door behind me, listening to the soft sobs.

But then I shook it off. Sympathy for the help is something one cannot afford, nçest pas?

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog