fuenf neun scaling the alps

My Saturday was spent mostly at the hairdresser. It was a special kind of torture as I’m not generally the “hang out at the hairdresser’s” type of person. In fact, if I can, I make every effort to avoid the hairdresser as if they were the dentist. It’s not that I dislike getting my hair done, it’s just that there are about ten thousand things more important in my world than how my hair looks normally.

But not last Saturday, for on Saturday, I had to go to an uppity party and wear not one but two dresses. If one must wear two dresses, the event is probably important enough that hair should really be left to the professionals. My make up was left to the professionals, too, actually.

The result: Chinese Wedding Caterpillar Eyelash TK (yes, yes, there will be pictures, but I have to bum them off the fifty people who thought to bring cameras to the event).

The party was for that magazine I find myself stressing over every couple of months (even though they don’t pay their writers) and was one of those money-burning, ego-stroking events that people go to because the food’s free, but then regret that they did because upon arriving they learn that said free food won’t be served until nine o’clock. Although, in this instance, even the promise of free food wasn’t enough to tempt about a quarter of the folks who RSVP’d to the invite as there were a great many empty chairs.

For my part, I walk-danced in a sexy little qipao (traditional Chinese dress) and introduced a beardless Santa Claus at the end of the night. There were some other things that went on, I think, like a fashion show (and tons of ego-stroking because that was the whole point) but for once Christian and I were seated at the “cool kids” table, so I was too busy spilling all the dirt I know about the magazine when I wasn’t running around trying to fix something or having my picture taken much like a Disneyland mascot that I hardly noticed.

The event had enough good P.R. spinning around it that it had managed to draw in a couple television film crews and a few newspapers, which meant that any given point in time a person could have up to a dozen cameras pointed at them, especially if they were on stage (or dressed in a qipao). That was odd. I would have thought I’d be used to it what with having possibly the most photographed child in this city, but a dozen sneak-camera-phone shots throughout the course of a day just can’t compete with a dozen gigantic professional cameras pointed at you at once.

When everything was said and done, though, I was beyond grateful to have those freaking eyelashes off. Fake lashes should be illegal.