Thursday, August 27, 2009


Words cannot even—yesterday was so beyond. It occurred to me on the way home that I've never been in shock over a good thing. Like, I'm sure when you land that dream job, get married, have your first kid or win the lottery or something, surely these situations force you into this sort of euphoric state of pseudo-shock.

Okay, it happened. But I still can't actually believe that it did. Because another thought I had is that this was the first sort of dream-come-true moment for me in my entire life. Really? I was kind of shocked by that errant thought, but then I surmised: Yes, really.

Yesterday was my marriage proposal, job promotion, winning lotto ticket moment. An eight-carat, emerald-cut, F-color, VVS1 diamond.

For, Oribe is a gem. A lovely, humble, down-to-earth, soft-spoken, sweet, funny, wonderful, delightful and uber-talented (goes without saying) man.

I'd never met one of my 'idols.' One of those few people who entered my world at a young age and influenced my entire outlook on fashion, beauty, editorial and magazine journalism. Oribe, Gianni Versace, Anna Wintour and Dominick Dunne were on my short list since I was a teenager. I was in college when Gianni died. I was on the phone with dad yesterday, excitedly relaying my Oribe afternoon to him, when I read this news: Dominick Dunne Dies at 83.

"Holy fuck shit!"

"Jesus, what Steph?"

"Dominick Dunne died today. Oh nooooo—"

"Really, that's pretty strange. How's the weather?"

"I meet one of my idols and then another one dies? That is sooo weird."

I'm sorry, but that's weird. Dominick Dunne was a huge influence on me. Huge. In fact, It's safe to say that I aspired to be the female version of Dunne, who, for those of you unfamiliar, was the preeminate society crime chronicler, novelist and Vanity Fair columnist. Dunne had balls. Platinum balls, people. He tackled—via his numerous romans a clef including People Like Us and A Season in Purgatory—the scandalous shenanigans of the elite. People Like Us—the Bloomingdales. A Season in Purgatory—the Kennedys. Which brings us to the point that Dunne and Teddy Kennedy died on the same day. Okay, I digress.

I just uploaded all the photos Hemley took. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed trying to summarize yesterday into one post. So I'm going to collect my thoughts and let the photos tell the story for now. You're going to have to check back tomorrow to see the end result. I'll give you a hint though: I was armed with the Versace Signatures book circa 1993. (Apparently Oribe did pretty much the entire cadre of models in the book and in all the related campaigns.) It was the golden age of Versace, Linda, Christy, Naomi, Cindy and Oribe.

I think we were both teleported back to that era yesterday, as Oribe seemed to find inspiration in the cut he gave Christy Turlington eons ago. Let's just say, the former Jewfro is in the best of company. I promise a full blow-by-blow (no pun) tomorrow. And I simply must add that Oribe loved working with my hair. Told me repeatedly how great my hair was. I lit up like a schoolgirl each time. So I will no longer complain about the hair. I swear. If it's good enough for Oribe, well, duh. Ahhh.

This month's Vogue cover, next month's Vogue and Vanity Fair covers and all covers in-between. Including, perhaps, the cover of Cancer Is the New Black? I likey the sound of that!

Shampoo & condition
Deep conditioning masque
Followed by a scalp massage from this little hottie:

And Midas touching my noggin