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HOLLVWOOO CanfOMtA
Strange Tales of the Pitiful Vanity of Aging Beauty Are Heard by the C harm Specialist.
vsterious WAYS of theSQeauty
Glutton
By Anne Austin
Jf a man is never a hero to his own valet, how much less is a motion picture star a heroine to her facial masseur, her manicurist, her hair-dresser! When a star's lovely tresses are pulled back from her forehead, making revelations that would rock the fan world ; when the makeup has been scraped off her face and nature's shrinking immodesty laid bare to the beneficent bath of cold cream ; when the crow's feet around her "most perfect eyes in the world" (see her press agent) are admitted, discussed and mourned over; when the Cupid's bow is off her lips and her honest Irish mouth emerges bashfully — then, oh, then the star unbuckles her mental suspenders and lets herself go.
She talks not to the masseur of "my art" and "bigger and better things — the best that is in mc for my public." In fact, Merton of the Movies, her conversation would be a body-blow to your beautiful faith in motion picture stars, built up so laboriously, so poetically, by their press agents. Even Norma Talmadge forgets that she is a tragedy queen. To the masseur she is merely
Mrs. Schenck, a nice married woman, who talks of how hot it is for this time of the year, and isn't it a shame that skirts are getting longer and what will we do with the short skirts we have, and do you like this new handbag of mine, and when on earth will it rain again.
For of course Norma talks to the people who give her a fancy facial, shampoo, henna pack, Boncilla, electrolysis, trim, scalp treatment, marcel and manicure. Yes, that is the regular diet of the beauty glutton.
To hear ah honest-to-God talk fest, go to a beauty parlor. For when a beauty parlor expert — they are all experts, you know, and have just come out from New York — is giving you a facial or a shampoo, she adopts the barber's social code — she talks you into a comatose condition. Millions of words of gossip arc spilled annually in every beauty parlor— the kind of gossip which Elinor Glyn would not dare to put into print, and which if overheard by Robert W. Chambers would make that now respectable scribe wonder why he ever thought he understood
women. No name or topic is sacred within the shrouding white curtains of a beauty parlor booth. No man is coming near. Other women are busy talking, too. There is nothing in the world to do but talk, and there is no time wasted. *
And a beauty parlor expert is no snide Scheherezadc ; she is perfectly willing to recount all the tid-bits of gossip that come her way. The size of her tip largely depends on the bulkiness of her gossip budget.
O
UT of this swirling maelstrom of
gossip, which I have gotten while under the steaming towel or in the permanent wave machine or while my hands were being held by a loquacious manicurist, has boiled up much that is unprintable and a little that can be set down — good and bad and gray-colored.
The Talmadge girls — Constance, Norma and Natalie — arc three of the most popular patronesses of this particular establishment, located on West Seventh street in Los Angeles — a mecca of theatrical and motion picture people. If the appointment sheets of this beauty shop were