Life is short — and my hair is long, thick and frizzy, as if I’m trapped in my own cumulonimbus cloud. Yet until recently, I reserved the only remedy — a blowout — for special events: weddings, opening night at the Met, appearances on “Theater Talk.”
Post arts editor Barbara Hoffman cites Nora Ephron (above) as her blowout inspiration. (Elizabeth Lippman)
Then Nora Ephron died, and amid the tributes came a tantalizing tidbit: For years, she enjoyed twice-weekly blowouts. “It’s cheaper by far than psychoanalysis,” she reasoned, “and much more uplifting.” A light bulb went off over my frizzy cloud: Hadn’t I quit therapy? Didn’t I just get a raise (a little one)? And what better to blow it on? Now, once a week, I hit Jean Louis David’s Midtown shop where, for $25 plus tip, a strong-armed woman named Rosa whips my locks into submission. Friends who’ve never complimented me before say I look swell, now that I’ve let my sleek flag fly. Thanks, Nora!