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LIZ
LETS
HER
HAIR
DOWN
■ "Me?" Liz Taylor said, giggling. "No, I haven't got any beauty secrets." Which statement is indicative of Liz' best secret — for beauty or just living in general: She refuses to be concerned. She doesn't hurry, she doesn't worry, she relaxes right and left — and everything gets done. A good example is the way she handles her hair.
(1) When working, Liz has her hair and nails done in her studio dressing room. During the shampoo she chats with the operator (often Joan Roberts, but, "I don't fuss over who does my hair. They're all good at MGM.") or studies scripts. Hair stylist Sidney Guilaroff usually does the trim.
(2) When not working, Liz does her own hair, even "combs it with a pair of scissors" instead of having it cut professionally. Then she washes it under the shower, sticks a couple of bobby pins in
to keep her natural curls in shape while damp, and dries it by hand in the sun.
(3) The combing into place
is a long, unhurried bit, like all of Liz' dressing. Usually tan, she wears no make-up but lipstick and her expensive, wellcared-for clothes fit her perfectly. Still, it's hours before she's ready to go out. "Don't rush me, darling," she tells Mike. "Go look at tv. I'm tuning you out." Then she returns to her casual manipulations. Once ready, she forgets her appearance entirely, never primps in public or fusses in powder rooms. Why should she? She's Liz Taylor, The-UnbotheredBy-Anything !
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(Continued from page 60) asked to invite a movie star for tea. Her instant choice was Marilyn Monroe.
The invitation was duly extended as a lark. It was expected Marilyn would wonder who the devil Dame Edith was. Instead she proclaimed herself a great admirer of the British poetess and would be honored to attend. The two women hit it off famously.
This year, Dame Edith publicly invited Marilyn to visit England so they might meet again. "Of course I'd be delighted to play literary mother to her," she said. "Marilyn is a serious-minded girl."
Her native intelligence is similarly recognized by other students at Actors' Studio. At the start, her position was admittedly difficult. Not only is Marilyn retiring by nature, but her classmates were prejudiced by her notoriety as a movie siren. Furthermore, after years of being fawned over, she had to adjust to being treated as an equal, if not a downright inferior.
ON her first day, she arrived while class was in progress. All the chairs were taken, so she had to slump down on the floor as inconspicuously as possible. No one stood up to offer her a seat. Uncomplimentary remarks were made behind her back about her hair, clothes and profile.
When class was over, she was a lonely figure, unapproachable because of her reputation, yet anxious to make friends. Waiting oh the sidewalk for her limousine, she looked for all the world like Little Orphan Annie abandoned by Daddy Warbucks.
She made plenty of friends, however, in the weeks that followed. Her colleagues found her bright, charming and selfeffacing. They came to respect her motives, though many doubted she could attain her goal. Skepticism dies hard, especially on Broadway.
Marilyn turned up for school looking like an unemployed ingenue. After classes, she often had a bite to eat with her fellow students. Among her warmest friends were Eli Wallach and Ben Gazzara, both noted Broadway actors, with whom she had heated discussions at Childs about theatre and art.
One Sunday, she accompanied Wallach, his wife and their four-year-old son Josh on an outing to the country, where the youngster had the enlightening experience of going swimming with Marilyn Monroe. Wallach's straight-faced report is that no one batted an eye.
Yet her role remained decidedly ambiguous among her new-found friends. On the one hand, she was no less dedicated than they, and earned their admiration for it. On the other, she came down each day out of the clouds like a fairy princess—down from her suite in the Waldorf Towers. And sometimes her descent had the impact of dynamite.
At the opening of East Of Eden, which was a benefit to raise money for Actors' Studio, a host of Broadway actresses obligingly volunteered to serve as usherettes. So did Marilyn, who stole the spotlight the instant she appeared, dressed to the teeth as a Hollywood star. There is a quality about Marilyn in that guise — part herself, part publicity build-up — which is positively explosive. Without her presence, the event wouldn't have been anything like the walloping success it was.
This public magnetism constantly reminded her classmates that, unlike them, she had already gone west and struck gold. What they perhaps didn't appreciate was her mixed feelings about California. Whereas they had migrated to New York for professional training, Marilyn had come east, in a (Continued on page 64)