THE ALABAMA MAKEOVER

A sudden fashion attack in the South

There was a wonderful gay celebrity makeup artist by the name of Kevin Aucoin — he was essentially the first of the makeup artists to understand the magnitude of things that were possible with a little contouring and/or makeup trompe l’oeil.    He made books in which he took one star and transformed her into another star, solely with the power of makeup. On a gossip level, he was also a great and gentle person, from all reports.  Kevin was the real thing:  He’d been making up his sister into blouzy, VOGUE-inspired looks ever since they were little children. 

He died quite young, leaving a thriving makeup line behind him, which died soon afterward — it was his brand.  It needed his personal magic to survive. 

My favorite story about him was that he once had to make over Courtney Love when she was so supremely trashed, she fell asleep on the floor while he squatted over and beautified her.  When she woke up and looked in the mirror, she cried because she had never seen herself look so good.

A bit about my soul-sister, Dr. Julie, a professor of Literary Theory in the deep South: we tend to get in trouble together. 

The last time she was here, I was imprisoned overnight for a Wet Reckless, which is less than, but essentially a DUI.  We’ve ridden motorcycles and done voodoo in Brooklyn and Taos New Mexico.  We’ve scored drugs in weird projects. We’ve been screeching, karate-fighting drunk in the Florida Panhandle.  

Dr. Julie and her fabulous son Finn and I were dining in Birmingham, AL at a fashionable old brunch establishment on their porch one sunny spring morning.  Julie and I were both wearing fabulous sunglasses that I’d picked out for the both of us.  As we started tucking in to various breakfast and hangover foods, the manager of the restaurant approached us.  She was a short, zaftig woman in a college sweatshirt with shapeless, shoulder-length hair. 

“Excuse me,” she asked Dr. Julie, “But can you tell me where you got those sunglasses?” 

“Oh GURL,” Dr. Julie interjected.  “This woman here is CINTRA WILSON.  She writes about fashion for the New York Times.  She picked them out.”  

“And I LOVE your hair,” the woman said to Julie. 

“Cintra just cut it!” Julie howled. 

The manager refilled our mimosas and pulled over a chair.  “Help me,” she said.  “I want a whole new deal.”  

The manager turned her attentions to me, and we talked, and I looked over this pale, dark-haired young woman and sussed her out.  She was obviously a college graduate and now a worn-out professional with too many idiotic responsibilities.  Her clothes and hair and makeup were strictly utilitarian and doing nothing for her.  She was comfortable, but little else. 

Women are so fucked…particularly in the South, where the Cinderella myth and the beauty industrial complex have hammered most women’s self-esteem unto a flat, bloody self-loathing. This was a young woman who had lost her feminine swerve, if in fact she ever had one.  She might have just soft-pedaled the whole feminine thing down in the service of professionalism — or worst of all: she felt she had no significant femininity to give. Some women, in sublimating themselves to industry and the ever-demeaning quest for the Yankee dollar, forget how to enjoy being a girl. 

I’ve been guilty of it myself in the past.

I don’t know exactly what we said to each other, but within 10 minutes, I was out on the porch in front of the other annoyed diners sawing great handfuls of the manager’s hair with a box cutter using a three-pronged fork for a comb.  Strands of hair were wafting into the eggs Benedicts of the other patrons, but it was clearly an emergency:  this woman urgently needed LAYERS. 

Once I had slashed her hair into the right shape, we had a talk about makeup.  Darker lipstick, I believed, was essential to pulling out a little va-va-voom in her.  Lipstick can be truly transformative.  Once she had one of my reds on her face, a whole new Liz Taylor similarity started to emerge.  I was determined to tease it out. 

“You know what you need now?  A PENCIL SKIRT,” I told her.  “You have a waistline! Why aren’t you using it?”

She was game.  She was willing to go all the way with this guerrilla makeover, so she arranged to leave the restaurant and the four of us went across the street to a large vintage store.  

I was determined to turn her into a sort of dishy office gal — kind of a ‘Joan’ from Mad Men silhouette without the florescent, breast-y acrylic knits. 

First I needed to strip down all the idiotic myths she had about her body.  Her wide hips only accentuated her tiny waist, I had to show her — she had been hiding her entire upper torso in giant sweatshirts that covered everything.  We found her a pencil skirt, and she started to get interested in blouses.  

This girl really started to shine.  Dr. Julie and I started finding cute stuff for her everywhere, and she ended up buying a massive pile of clothes.  She was giddy and trilling with excitement, and called up her boyfriend.  She was going to run over and surprise him.  

After hugs everywhere, she dashed out to meet her paramour, and left Dr. Julie, Finn and I in the vintage shop.  I never ended up getting her name or contact number. 

“Wow,”  said Finn.  “She went from being a 6 to an 8.5 in two hours!”

It was true: she got a new beauty boost that day, and she was scurrying home to her boyfriend to spring sex on him, all aglow with that magical thing that happens to your interior when you feel like you suddenly look great after a season of not feeling like you do. Sometimes, when you get the right new clothes, a new, energetic you bursts out like a flower — one that you shaped and chose to your own thoughtful specifications.  It’s a happy Gestalt trick that can be very powerful. 

 It’s a nice high, proving to people that they’re still cute. 

Cintraw@gmail.com

Artwork: “Heather Locklear,” oil on canvas, Cintra Wilson 2022