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For the crème de la crème in beauty and wellness, you could head to a destination spa, a swanky resort or a high-end day spa in Center City.
Or you could skip the schlep and visit the new CURE de Repos in Ardmore.
Locally owned and operated, CURE is 2800 sq. ft. of luxurious indulgence in Cricket Flats, the new mixed-use complex on Cricket Ave.
Remember when the Main Line was buzzing about a “Real Housewives” show based here?
And how Bravo TV said thanks but no thanks and took their cameras elsewhere?
Because, apparently, we Main Liners are too cookie-cutter and won’t let our highlighted hair down.
Ha.
Little did they know.
Now we’re letting it all hang out – at least some of us are – on “Get Real Main Line,” a reality show that’s been filming for a year and was just picked up by a major network.
“Get Real” stars Toni Filippone, Conestoga Class of ’93, perhaps the Main Line’s mouthiest and funniest lesbian, out and proud, married to Berwyn caterer Meridith Coyle since August 2015.
Just when I start giving serious thought to switching from Ban to a “natural deodorant” comes word I should pitch every stinkin’ beauty product in my bathroom.
Oy.
That word comes from Beautycounter, the “safe” products line that just paid the Main Line its first official visit.
About 80 local lovelies showed up at Radnor’s Avenue Kitchen the other night for a taste of Beautycounter culture.
I hold my x-rated photo album while dermatologist Adrienne Rencic checks for changes.
As some of you know, I’ve done a little fashion modeling over the years but a while back I posed for a very different kind of photo spread. I wasn’t showcasing the clothes on my back because, well, there weren’t any clothes on my back.
Here’s how it happened.
My brother and my father are both malignant melanoma survivors so I had long been a faithful, if not enthusiastic, patient of a dermatologist I used to call The Sun Nazi. Every year, the Sun Nazi would inspect the assorted moles, freckles and “beauty marks” peppering my epidermis, tsk tsk over my very faint tan lines, and implore me to get “Total Body Photography.”
About seven years ago – tired of excisions and biopsies – I took her advice and called the Dermatrak Skin Imaging Center (then in King of Prussia, now in Plymouth Meeting).
I’ll never forget my appointment.
After handing over a $500 check for the privilege, I shed all of my clothes (undies included) and jewelry and slipped on a white terry robe.
I was then told to stand in the center of a large blindingly bright studio where a man in a white coat (a photographer trying to look like a doc?) approached and asked me to hand him my robe.
He directed me through 30 minutes of unseemly poses while he clicked away. His job was to capture every square inch of me – scalp, soles and lady parts included – in full-color digital 2D. As I bent and twisted and lifted, I remember wondering if he enjoyed his work.
My photo album came in the mail a few weeks later wrapped in brown paper and conspicuously marked “Personal” and “Private.” Oh dear, what does the mailman think I ordered?
I promptly hid the package – unopened – under my bed.
I still can’t bring myself to look at the pictures, but my new dermatologist seems to appreciate them. I tote my album along to my annual skin checks and she systematically compares every mole constellation against its celluloid counterpart, looking for changes in shape, size, color and spacing. (I’ve had nightmares about leaving the album in the waiting room or in my car. Mommy, what’s this?)
And I’m pleased to report that I’ve had only one suspicious removed since my X-rated escapade. Which means no new stitches, no fresh centipede scars.
So while the experience was debasing in every way (especially for a good Catholic girl like me), I recommend it.
Plus, when you’re middle aged, the photos are good for at least 10 years. Like well-spaced pregnancies, there’s ample time between photo shoots to forget the torture.
Snow days simply aren’t what they used to be.
No snow-crusted mittens tumbling in the dryer, no guilt-inducing make-a-craft-with-me-mommy pleas, no obnoxious bells heralding a next-level video game victory, no one calling the house to plan a sledding rendez-vous.
Nope, snow days, empty-nester style, are profoundly quiet and still. And I love ’em.
Today is one of those blissful days and guess what I did first thing? (OK, second thing; caffeine and big-girl breakfast ALWAYS come first.) I showed my makeup brushes a little love.
Turns out if you neglect your brushes – and boy, have I ignored mine! – they’ll take it personally. First, they’ll visit upon you every manner of disfigurement – acne, pink eye, scabies. (Kiddin’ about that last one, but you get the idea). Then, over time, they’ll get all uppity and stop working for you altogether – they’ll lose their shape and texture and, in cases of extreme abandonment, start losing their hair. Nasty stuff. Thankfully, no scabies to report here, but chronic bloodshot eyes and the recent purchase of a long-lasting eyeliner in a pot (Bobbi Brown’s – love it!) got me thinking about freshening up my liner brush, and this morning, well, one brush led to another …
Sucker that I am, I fell for a $15 bottle of MAC brush cleaner when everyone knows (everyone but me, apparently) that your grubby bristles will perk up just as readily with dishwashing liquid, bar soap, shampoo or even olive oil.
I won’t bore you with a video showing how I cleaned mine. Just don’t wet the brush barrel (lest your bristles loosen) and be sure to rinse thoroughly with lukewarm water. Feel free to lather (gently), rinse and repeat on extra-grimy foundation or concealer brushes. Then lay flat to dry.
The Bobbie Brown Makeup Manual recommends washing once a week but I think once a month may be a tad more realistic. My little burst of early-morning productivity (others might call it work procrastination but they would be SO wrong) wasn’t planned. Nor was it in character: compulsively tidy I am not!
Still, I have to say, I’m feeling pretty pleased. Today’s whiteout wasn’t a complete washout after all. Scratch that – it WAS a complete washout, but only for my grateful little brushes.
