Leandra Medine's Blog, page 361

How to Style Your Curly Hair Without Drowning in a Sea of Frizz

I was in the midst of extricating half a broken tortilla chip from a bowl of guacamole at a Mexican restaurant last Saturday when my friend asked me, “How did you get your hair to look like that?”

I fingered one of my freshly air-dried curls. “What do you mean?” I asked. “You’ve seen my hair curly before.”

“Yeah, but…” she hesitated. “Isn’t it usually frizzier?”

I had to laugh. One of the trickiest things about my naturally curly hair is not being able to predict how it will look. Sometimes I wake up with perfect squiggles, other days I’m confronted with Medusa-like snakes or an explosion of frizz. There are so many uncontrollable variables — weather, movement, the angle of my head when I sleep, Brad Pitt’s mood, etc. I manage it as best as I can with a healthy pump of DevaCurl styling cream (the only product that’s ever successfully tamed my frizz) right after washing, but after that it’s sort of a choose-your-own adventure situation, and I’m not the one choosing the adventure. My hair is.

That’s why in terms of “styling,” I always just leave it down when I’m wearing it curly. No fuss, no muss. It’s the safest option. With straight hair, you can mess around with it and still return to a clean slate if you don’t end up liking the result, but with curly hair, any touching inevitably exacerbates the frizz or upsets the curl pattern. It’s risky.

Leaving my hair down every day isn’t much fun though. It feels pretty limiting. I want options — foolproof curly-hair styles I can factor into my rotation. So I reached out to DevaCurl, the brand responsible for my favorite curly-hair products, and asked for help.

Two days later, I was sitting in a chair at Man Repeller HQ experiencing delightful ASMR chills at the hands of Eladia LeBron, DevaCurl stylist extraordinaire. She kindly demonstrated two curly hairstyles (a fancy “night-time” one on me, and a QT pie “daytime” one on Erica). They’re both so easy you can do them at home in just four steps, potentially with your eyes closed, but I have yet to attempt that myself. In the meantime, watch and learn, fellow curly whirlies:

The style: Fancy schmancy fishtail bun

Recommended for: Wavy to curly hair

1. Mist the hair with water, then slick it back using a soft bristle brush and a light pomade (Eladia used DevaCurl’s Beautiful Mess Sculpting Pomade).

2. Secure the hair into a ponytail with a soft elastic and divide into four sections.

3. Create a fishtail braid with each section, securing at the end with a small rubber band. Holding the ends of the fishtail, gently push the braid up towards the root to condense it and make it look extra textured.

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4. Wrap the braids around the base of the ponytail, securing with bobby pins to create a bun and teasing the ends of the braids to even out the shape if necessary.

The style: Casual twisted pony

Recommended for: Curly to super curly hair

1. Start with dry, defined curls. Section out the hair above the ear to the nape of the neck at both sides.

2. Wet and slick down the remaining middle section, securing in place with a styling cream (Eladia used DevaCurl’s Wave Maker Touchable Texture Whip).

3. Take the left section, and starting at the root, twist the hair up and in, working your way down until the entire section is twisted. Secure with bobby pins and repeat on the other side.

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4. Take a loose curl from the bottom center section, and wrap it around all of your hair, including the twists, to create a ponytail. Secure in place with a pin.

ET VOILA.

Special thanks to DevaCurl and Devachan stylist Eladia LeBron. 

Photo by Edith Young.

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Vegas Makes Waking Up on a Sunday Worse

Welcome back to MR’s Sunday Scaries Diaries, where haunted humans chronicle their end-of-weekend terrors (plus the events that led up to them) to help make all of us feel a little less alone in the fetal position come Monday morning. Up this week, Marissa Ross — writer, Bon Appétit Wine Editor and author of WINE. All the Time (available now for pre-order). You think being a professional drinker would make her Sundays easier, but no. It’s super scary. For starters, she’s in VEGAS.

8:03 a.m.

I really do not want to be awake right now, but I’m one of those people who, no matter how late I stay up or how much I drink, will always be up by eight. Despite my three hours of sleep and the tiki mug on the hotel dresser reminding me of those rum drinks I didn’t need, I’m not hung over. But it’s Sunday. In Vegas. And I’ve been here since Wednesday. And that is its own shitty sick feeling in the pit of your stomach and soul.

For the record, I’ve been in Vegas for work, for Bon Appétit’s Vegas Uncork’d. Uncork’d is BA’s big Vegas food event, and each day I hosted events with different chefs. My duties included giving a small speech, socializing with guests and making sure everyone had a nice time. These are all things I normally am very good at, but this morning, I am not so confident. Four days in Vegas has left my spirit feeling like a can in a compactor: crushed.

8:30 a.m.

I drag myself out of bed, find the kettle and grab the “Soothing” tea bags I stole from the hotel lobby yesterday out of my purse. I have no voice left from yelling over music at the events I hosted the night before, and I’m supposed to give another speech at noon. Which is obviously going to sound beautiful, and by beautiful I mean, “like a very old and tired chain smoker which is a real bummer since I don’t smoke.”

9:00 a.m.

I hop in the shower and try to pump myself up. I’ve got this! If there’s anything I’m better at than drinking and writing, it’s talking! Especially in front of people! I’m going to crush this speech! I’m going to wash the cigarette smell out of my hair and shave my legs and wash my face and feel brand fucking new!

9:17 a.m.

I’m sitting in my robe in bed and my hair still somehow smells like cigarettes, as if my time here in Vegas has become a permanent part of my essence. I do not feel brand new.

9:31 a.m.

YESSS. FORENSIC FILES IS ON. I love Forensic Files, and it is always on HLN. I don’t know what HLN stands for but they should change it to FFN (Forensic Files Network) because it has been on every time I’ve been in my hotel room.

10:22 a.m.

WAIT. IT’S 10:22? I HAVE TO LEAVE FOR MY EVENT IN AN HOUR AND I STILL HAVE TO GET READY AND PACK AND FIND COFFEE!!! DAMN YOU, FORENSIC FILES!!!

11:32 a.m.

Early to the Bellagio. I’m always early, even when I’m running late. But I feel terrible. My eyes are burning and my chest feels heavy from the hours upon hours in this atmosphere. I don’t think there is actual oxygen in Vegas, just some loathsome and addictive mixture of secondhand smoke and recycled air.

11:52 a.m.

Got my speech down, but it has come to my attention that I am underdressed. I didn’t realize this was a formal Grandma’s Birthday/Easter kind of brunch and not a “Brunch! It’s a thing!” brunch. I greet the manager of the Michelin-starred restaurant and thank him for having us, complimenting their extensive wine cellar. He gives me a dinner menu to “keep me busy.”

12:15 p.m.

My hair is completely flat and I’m about to go on and…

12:20 p.m.

I bombed. Okay, I didn’t “bomb,” everyone said I was fine, but for me, I bombed. See, I went to do the speech and confidently was like, “Yo, hand me the mic.” But there was no microphone. Normally I don’t need one, but with my voice sounding more like Juno, Caseworker for the Dead from Beetlejuice with bronchitis than an energetic wine editor. I needed a fucking microphone. Also, microphones give me an instant switch into “Entertainer Marissa,” a human who can work a crowd much better than the flat-haired Dad on Vacation that stood before the wealthy, buttoned-up, Michelin-star brunch crowd. I was banking on that microphone, and not having it threw me. I stumbled through my speech, smiling at the upper echelon of epicureans who looked ready to hang me in the foyer for wearing shorts. I finished and slunk back behind a wall near the host stand and held back puking, something I did almost every time I got off stage as a kid.

12:31 p.m.

Chef personally asks me to come say a few more remarks. My nausea dies down, and I put away my emergency Klonopin.

11:13 p.m.

Back at Caesar’s with the rest of the BA crew that is still in town. We eat Chinese food and drink a lot of sake and laugh too loud. I notice my hands are the driest they’ve ever been, and in a moment of desperation, I cover them in Aesop lip balm then throw back another sake. We head to the airport together, and although I feel like a dried-out paper towel that has been stomped into the sands of life, I am really grateful to work for Bon Appétit. I love my job, my bosses, my co-workers. I love coming to Vegas for five days every year and losing my damn mind. Even when you have the driest hands of your life, it’s important to take time to be thankful for the good stuff.

4:50 p.m.

My hour-long flight back to Los Angeles has been delayed, TWICE. With all of this time at the airport to myself and vodka sodas at Chili’s To-Go, I remember I have an OB-GYN appointment in the morning. I’m going in for the responsible pap smear, but mostly because I thought I had pillow marks on my boob a couple weeks ago, but the grooves are still there. Because they are not pillow marks. I don’t know what they are, and I don’t think they’re stretch marks because I have those on my ass and these are different. I’m trying not to go full-blown WebMD apocalypse mode because today has already been a very scary Sunday, and metal stirrups and clamps are already scary enough, and they’re probably just stretch marks and it won’t be at all scary when the doctor looks me in the eye and says, “You’re 31 and have boob stretch marks, you’re fine.” Not scary at all, getting old! I laugh at the passing of time! HA HAAAA!

8:26 p.m.

After hours of sitting in airports and on runways, I finally walk in my door and collapse on my couch. My dogs run all over me. Ben, my fiancé, has made pasta and I spend the rest of the evening curled up between the corner of the couch and his shoulder, knowing that even if I bomb all my speeches forever or I find out these are not stretch marks on my boobs, I will always have this: home. And that makes everything a little less scary.

Feature illustration by Emily Zirimis; photos by Marissa A. Ross. 

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I Lost My Underwear on a Trading-Room Floor

It was a typical Tuesday morning. I woke up late, grabbed a clean-ish corporate outfit from the top of an amassed laundry pile and I was off to my soul-destroying job in the finance world. Hours later, whilst en route to a meeting, I decided to take a shortcut through the bank’s main trading floor. I maneuvered my way through the multiplex of jumbo screens and super-sized egos of traders frantically trying to out-bro each other. I was walking as swiftly as possible when I felt an odd sensation around my ankle. It was as if my black cigarette pants were twisted. I reflexively kicked my foot up to release the bind and marched onward.

A deafening roar of cheers and howls rose up behind me. I assumed one of the day traders had just made it rain. I assumed wrong. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed fingers pointing in my direction. I whipped my head around to witness a sight now forever burned on my retina: A burly stock trader twirling my white lace Cosabella knickers around his pinkie finger. Hypnotized by the sight of my undergarments spinning gusset-first through the air, I remained frozen to the spot. I suddenly recalled with utter horror that this particular piece of intimate apparel had recently survived a long workday and a spin class, remaining unwashed. In the realization that this was a moment I would likely never live down, two options became immediately apparent to me:

1. Scurry your ass the hell out of there, quit immediately and pretend this never happened; or

2. Pull on your big-girl pants and walk over to retrieve your knickers.

I chose option 2. The very thought of my underwear spending the rest of their short life hanging nonchalantly over some trader’s desk was too much to bear. Taking a deep breath and avoiding all eye contact, I walked over to the cackling trader and held out my hand while staring directly at my shoes. Once my underwear was safely deposited into my sweaty palm, I scuttled away to the nearest bathroom as whoops and wails of laughter continued unabashed.

Surprising even myself, I ended up staying at that job for another couple of years. Perhaps as a coping mechanism, the experience remained banished to the inner recesses of my memory, never to be spoken of again. Until now.

They say every experience in life, good or bad, is a lesson. Years later I’m still not sure what I learned or why, but there is now one thing I know for sure: Never grab an outfit from the laundry pile without checking it for stray knickers first.

You can follow Victoria’s blog here.  Collage by Maria Jia Ling Pitt; photos by Ivan Dmitri/Michael Pchs Archives and Chaloner Woods via Getty Images.

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An Extra-Special Monocycle with Drew Barrymore

Ask and ye shall receive! Following a special episode of The Chatroom with Drew Barrymore, which went live a few weeks ago after months and months of toiling with the expansive range of topics that were covered during our conversation in December, the longer-form podcast episode is here for your ear (plugs). If I’m being really honest, sitting down with Drew following a particularly tumultuous month was like Xanax for my soul — there is an undeniable warmth about the way in which she looks at you (and into your soul, frankly), a true earnestness when she not just sympathizes but also empathizes with what you want to say, and you always get the sense, no matter what she’s talking about, that it’s coming from the heart.

Have a listen and then nod in agreement as I say: We are all Josie Grossie.

This episode of Monocycle is edited by Samara Breger. Logo illustration by Kelly Shami. Photographed by Simon Chetrit; follow him on Instagram @simonzchetrit.

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I Just Needed One Thing From Target…

I swear to effing god I just need sunscreen. Sunscreen. That’s it. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. One bottle.

The problem is, it’s located in beauty. To get there, I’ll have to traverse the entire store — akin to walking over hot coals while wearing dollar bills for shoes. The first hurdle will be emotionally and physically clearing the office supply aisle, which I feel confident doing if only because I’m not in school and work exclusively in digital. I’m 70% sure I do not need gold scissors. Does that stapler have googly eyes? Go go go.

 

The home-decor section is looming. I can feel my constitutions weakening by way of a throw pillow that looks like a pink yarn monster. Such a pillow might transform my entire apartment, that much I know, but I’m stronger than that. Just like I’m stronger than that decorative, red metal tray that reminds me of a lobster and makes me want to throw a party. Why the fuck would I need a tray? Am I a waiter? A bedside table that looks like it’s from West Elm — what the hell, Nate Berkus — makes eyes at me. Absolutely not.

When I see a pool-sized bin of $10 throw blankets, I know I’m screwed. I genuinely need a new blanket. Swear to G. They’re so cheap! Okay: I will get the blanket and then I will get the sunscreen and then I will exit this store and call my grandfather. I sail right past the kitchen aisle, turning my nose up at a mini crockpot and set of anthropomorphized measuring spoons that might change my life.

The apparel section is an adorable pink pouf’s throw away — which I have no use for aside from personal fulfillment — and I’m sweating. I spot a pack of Hanes white T-shirts. My left knee buckles. My right eye twitches. I grab a pack (a single pack!) and stuff it inside the folds of the blanket, because if it’s hidden it doesn’t exist.

Sunscreen. That’s it.

I trot through loungewear and activewear, past soft cotton robes and sweatpants made of dreams. I nab some no-show socks without so much as slowing my gait. I stare at a wall of swag printed with fake vintage logos of my local sports team until I remember I don’t like sports. I exit the apparel section like a professional speed-walker.

I skirt through home and cleaning supplies, shaking my head at a Swiffer Wet Jet and a jug of strangely adorable detergent pods that I may or may not have named Suzy. I huff past some plastic bins that would fix my pantry and elbow some bulk hangers that would fix my closet. Finally, Jesus Christ, I arrive at beauty.

As I jog my way through the first aisle, I blink dismissively at a sleeve of cotton pads, my favorite drugstore mascara, a stick of deodorant that’s so mini I could cry and a pack of Bioré strips that would no doubt elevate my self-care game. In the next aisle, I shake my head at soft loofah I deem a “want” and decide against stealing a spritz of dry shampoo. By the time I arrive at the sunscreen, my heart is pounding. I pace back and forth, examining each bottle for clues as to which is best. This takes just over 17 minutes. My stomach growls, my head hurts, I forget the purpose of sunscreen and I conclude, with a bitterness in my soul, that I simply can’t decide.

I swear off capitalism and wander towards the register, grabbing some Lemonheads, a box of wine and a pack of gum. I pay my bill (what, 377 dollars?) and skedaddle out of there, seven bags inexplicably in hand and the store clerk behind me, ready to lock up as the clock strikes 11 p.m.

Illustrations by Maria Jia Ling Pitt. 

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Oh My God, I Love Rebecca Taylor

When I was a fashion market assistant at New York Magazine, Rebecca Taylor was one of the first brands I visited for a press appointment. It was a label I kept in mind often for shoots: contemporary price points (back when contemporary price points did not mean 1k for a dress), pleasant to look at, consistently on-trend, work-or-family appropriate. It wasn’t exciting but it was wearable. As I began to explore new brands, I didn’t forget Rebecca Taylor, but I let my focus spread in a million new directions.

It recently came back into my periphery while browsing for a Should I Buy This. It felt like an old friend. And you know what? Rebecca Taylor is so, so good right now.

Our taste and style changes due to a million different factors (time, age, what’s in the air) so I can’t tell if “right now” really is right now, as in all-of-a-sudden, or if I’m having a Cher-in-front-of-the-light-up-water-fountain moment.

Cher-in-front-of-the-light-up-water-fountain moment = that scene from Clueless where Cher realizes she loves Josh.

When love is realized, however, does the timeline of reality even matter? Of course not! The best thing you can do is tell the person, or things, you love how you feel…

Like you, Gigi Fleur Midi Dress. You are perfect for fancy errands or a causal wedding. You too, Dress Leandra Wore in Her Tea Dress Story.

Mia Floral Jumpsuit on sale, you make the world a happier place.

Patched Dress, your name isn’t as fun as the others but so what? You look like something Harling would wear.

Off-the-Shoulder Poplin Top, I can’t imagine a pair of high waist jeans without you. Poplin Lace Top, the feeling is mutual.

La Vie Patched Jeans, you look like the solution to stale wardrobes.

Delphine Trousers with a clean white tank? Best of Rachel Green.

These Eyelit Jeans could fix all of my problems.

And while it seems a little hyperbolic, I am almost positive I cannot carry on into summer without this dress.

So is it good right now? Yes. Was it not before? Who knows. More than anything, I am just so glad we are not in any way, shape or form even remotely related so that I can scream from the rafters of my teachers who I setup’s wedding: OH MY GOD, I LOVE REBECCA TAYLOR.

Scroll the the lookbook above (I need it all — it’s the new me) and/or the website, then let’s head to the comments to talk literal shop.

Images courtesy of Rebecca Taylor.

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My Husband and I Sleep in Separate Bedrooms

I had my own room growing up, but was indoctrinated to believe that when I married, my shared life with my husband would mean a shared bathroom, and a shared bed.

This set-up resulted in my husband using my brush when he had greasy product in his hair and swigging mouthwash from my bottle. I found my toothbrush wet on a number of occasions.

My husband likes to get up before the sun rises; and for years, his alarm, the lights and noise would wake me. I thought this was just part of the deal.

And then, he started to snore. I’m talking piercing, guttural sounds that could wake someone in a coma and smooth, heavy, breaths that annoyed like a drop of water hitting the same spot on your skin, over and over again. At first, I’d gently nudge him so he’d roll onto his stomach, which sometimes helped. But eventually, my light taps stopped working, and frustrated, I’d resort to yelling and even, kicking. This was obviously not an effective way to engage. Slowly, hostility built.

After being up for three or more hours a night, I’d wake, defending my behavior by reciting studies showing that sleep deprivation ensured moodiness and was used as a form of torture. But my husband thought I was being a bitch. Things were not going well. There was many a time we were already in a fight before we said good morning.

One day, I heard drilling. My husband, tired of my complaining and wanting to have a comfortable space of his own, hired a handyman to install a television in a newly empty bedroom down the hall. I must admit my heart lurched, my abandonment button pressed, because before we married, I used to say to him, I can’t wait until I can fall asleep in your arms every night and wake up with you every morning. Now, here we were 20 years later, separating. It felt like defeat.

My husband was embarrassed and reluctant to reveal that we were sleeping in separate bedrooms. Even though I’d come to see our new setup as practical, if not positive, I soon realized why he had been hesitant. Our friends looked at us sadly, and with judgment. They were making conclusions about us as a couple based strictly on the fact that we no longer slept in the same bed — a move that was indicative, it seemed, of a marriage on the rocks. It didn’t matter that he’d gone through a medical procedure (where extra-long needles were required) and participated in an overnight study to stop his snoring. It didn’t matter that I wore earplugs, bought a noise machine and took Ambien. There was little empathy.

It’s true that my grandparents, and my husband’s grandparents, slept in separate beds; in those cases, it was representative of marriages failed. After the sexual revolution, the marital bed came to symbolize something new, a blessed union full of spontaneous, hot, protected, monogamous sex. At the same time, we were spoon-fed the idea that our partner should be our “everything.”

We know better now. We’ve learned that couples need lots of people in their lives, and that no one person can be everything. Times change. Ideas change. And I’d changed, too. But that didn’t stop the judgment.

Until one morning recently, when two friends sent me the same link from a Wall Street Journal article, The Secret to a Happy Marriage? Two Master Bedrooms, as if to say, look you were right. Or, at the very least, you’re not alone.

It turns out that as of August 2010, according to the National Sleep Foundation, 25% of couples sleep in separate rooms. Like vaginal dryness and herpes, the shame kept people from talking.

Honoring sleep doesn’t just affect married couples. A friend of mine is single. She and her partner have amazing dates and lots of great sex, but at the end of the night, they part ways, each choosing a good night’s sleep over an old convention.

I’ve learned to accept my circumstances. I don’t spend as much time as I used to lamenting what I don’t have. Sure, there are nights I’d like to fall asleep in my husband’s arms, or squeeze my frozen feet between his warm legs, but now I focus on, and am grateful for, the fact that I can watch Big Little Lies, Girls or what ever else I want, until whatever time I want, without having to take into account his schedule or sleep habits.

I watched an interview on this topic recently, and the reporter said, if someone is that hard to be with in bed, maybe you should find someone else to be with.

Really?

After decades of marriage, five children and six grandchildren, I should look for someone new to share my bed with because my husband snores?

I don’t think so.

Maybe I’m a trailblazer. Or maybe, just maybe, I really like it when I go to use my deodorant and there isn’t a kinky black hair curled across the top.

Illustrations by Maria Jia Ling Pitt.

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6 Comedians on Their Most Embarrassing Bombs

 

We all fuck up from time to time, but for comedians, fuckups are much more acute and immediate. They know they’re bombing as they’re bombing and so does everyone else. Comedy is an industry notorious for putting its most celebrated names through decades of awkward silences; bombing battle scars are practically a rite of passage. Anyone who gets through it is a hero, if you ask me. That said, I can’t think of anyone better suited to laugh it the fuck off.

I asked six stand-ups and comedy writers to tell me about their most memorable bombs. I was curious (and just straight-up nosey) to hear how they think about them now, having gained successful footholds in the industry. Their stories are equal parts heartwarming and hilarious, but above all, they’re a helpful reminder that we’re not defined by our mistakes. Or better put: we are. I think that’s comforting.

Marina Cockenberg

Marina is the Director of Digital for The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon and has been in comedy for eight years.

Tell me about a standout memory from earlier in your career that still makes you cringe or laugh or both.

At my first job in comedy, I was approached by my boss with the opportunity to be a part of a stand-up showcase at SXSW. I was feeling very “say yes to the universe!” and agreed, only casually mentioning that I had never done stand-up before in my life.

I’d grown up performing theater and had some experience writing and acting on the web. I assumed that stand-up would be natural amalgamation of the two. I jotted down some funny stories I thought I had and got ready for my stand-up debut with a kind of naive positivity I refer to now as “sweet baby idiot.”

I walked onstage and immediately starting bombing. Any place I had hoped for laughs during my bathroom mirror rehearsals was met with complete silence. The single “ha!’ I got was when in a moment of pure panic, I made a weird face at the end of the joke. I had always been confident onstage, but within 45 seconds I was red, sweaty and my entire body was violently shaking.

How did it feel at the time and how does it make you feel now?

I was mortified. I walked off the stage and directly to the nearest bathroom stall, where I called my mom crying. I hadn’t expected to tear the roof off, but I had gone into the experience feeling like comedy was something I was good at. Now I thought, “Am I actually…terrible at this?”

It’s more of a comedy battle scar now, because I see the mistakes. I was truly bad. And while it’s great to embrace opportunities, you don’t get points for running off the cliff. I could have asked for help. I could prepared by going to open mics in the city. I could have invested in a parachute.

What does that moment mean to you in hindsight?

I’m thankful for that moment now. You’re not going to make it through comedy, or life, without a little gut-punching embarrassment. Once you’ve bombed, that looming prospect of failure feels less intimidating. You can work harder and get stronger and keep going. You already failed. You’ll fail again, but you’ll be okay.

Hallie Cantor

Hallie is a comedy writer and has worked on projects like Netflix’s Lady Dynamite, Comedy Central’s Inside Amy Schumer and NBC’s Maya & Marty. She’s been in comedy for six years.

Tell me about a standout memory from earlier in your career that still makes you cringe or laugh or both.

After my freshman year of college, I interned at CollegeHumor, the comedy site where I’d later work for years and make great friends and write a lot of comedy I’m proud of. At the time, though, I was 18 and EXTREMELY socially awkward and nervous around all the cool and funny writers in their 20s (as opposed to now when I am only VERY socially awkward and nervous.)

I also had no idea how to write a comedy article. Here’s one of the first ones I wrote during my internship. You can kind of see what I was going for, but it’s all over the place and just not that funny. And I was definitely trying too hard to match the bro-y tone of the site at that time, instead of writing in my own voice.

Anyway, I was devastated when the commenters ripped me apart with scathing comments (which have sadly since been deleted) like “meh” and “you look like Lance Bass.”

How did it feel at the time and how does it make you feel now?

It felt terrible! Now I can laugh at it, because I am much better at writing jokes. I still probably look just as much like Lance Bass as I ever did though. But that’s okay! He is a handsome man!!!

What does that moment mean to you in hindsight?

I’d like to say it taught me not to care about the comments, but that’s wishful thinking. If anything, complaining with the other interns about the comments showed me that being vulnerable can help you connect. It also showed me how valuable feedback from more experienced writers can be. Taking advice from the older writers I was afraid of took my articles from “embarrassingly bad” to “solidly adequate” by the end of the summer. It was probably the start of my understanding that writing is a craft that you can keep sharpening your whole life.

Mary Houlihan

Mary is a comedian, artist and animator.

Tell me about a standout memory from earlier in your career that still makes you cringe or laugh or both.

When I first started doing comedy, I was of the belief you need to perform 10,000 hours, go to four open mics a night and perform as much as possible in nightmare venues to get good FAST! I was also living with my parents at the time — it was, just in general, a very cool time — so not only would I take New Jersey Transit into the city every day, I’d also go to any weirdo comedy night at like, some rando bar on Route 17 or whatever.

I did a stand-up contest at a movie theater in Orange County, New York where the prize was just to perform at the movie theater again. I did another contest at an Irish pub where, at 23 years old, I was the youngest person competing by a solid 15 years. Another time I performed at an Italian restaurant in Haledon, New Jersey and got paid $20 plus a big plate of eggplant parmigiana over linguine. There too, I was 20 years younger than the other comedians, and 60 years younger than most of the audience. I remember there was a guy performing that night whose stage name was “Johnny Hollywood.” I googled him just now and there is another Johnny Hollywood who seems really nice, so I don’t want to slander his name. Let’s just say that this Johnny Hollywood was very alpha, and giving everyone at our table pointers. I told him he should check out some of the open mics in the city, and he told me that real stand-up doesn’t happen in NYC, which I just don’t think is true. The host was very nice though, and the eggplant parm was magnifico.

How did it feel at the time and how does it make you feel now?

I remember that, even at really bad shows, I was still determined and felt confident I was getting better. I feel grateful now that there’s more of a scene for the kind of stuff I do, and that I’ve found my voice. It’s cool that I used to be someone who desperately performed for pasta and now I put on my own shows and people want to come to them.

What does that moment mean to you in hindsight?

It is cool that I cared so much, but I feel like I could have made better use of my time if I wasn’t so focused on this weird macho mythology about how to get good at stand-up by working every kind of room. At the end of the day, I want to be able to do whatever the hell I want on stage, and I’m very okay with the fact that it’s not gonna be everyone’s cup of tea.

Blair Socci

Blair has been a stand-up comedian for five years. Check out her monthly show Nacho Bitches with Corinne Fisher at New York Comedy Club on May 26th at 11:15 pm.

Tell me about a standout memory from earlier in your career that still makes you cringe or laugh or both.

Okay, so one of the worst bombs I’ve ever had was at Bar Matchless when I was about two years into comedy and doing the show for the first time. Matchless is Michael Che’s old weekly show with Nimesh Patel and Mike Denny. It’s one of those cool, New York shows I had always wanted to do. Anyway, it can be a difficult room with a polite, listen-y type of Greenpoint crowd. As soon as I got on stage and started telling my jokes, it was just immediate silence. And at that point, I didn’t have enough experience to change it up and try to get them with crowd work, so I just panicked and kept going full steam ahead with my material, like Thelma and Louise when they drive the car off the cliff to their death. What a nightmare!

How did it feel at the time and how does it make you feel now?

Oh man, I was so mortified. I thought I was gonna cease to exist! I legit wanted to set myself on fire. I just remember there being a whole line of dude comedians in the back watching and in my petrified head I was like, “They’re probably loving seeing me bomb!” Which is a crazy thought to have because everyone bombs but, in fairness, a dude I had just ended things with was there that night and I could truly feel the joy and satisfaction pulsing off of his body. You’d have thought he just won the lottery. He was jubilant!

Looking back on it, it’s funny how serious you think these things are at the time but then you learn that none of it really matters because you have a million more sets ahead. Now that I’m more comfortable as a comic, my friends and I can laugh at each other when we’re bombing (unless it’s like a late-night set or audition or something, that would suck big time). I had a bomb the other night that was so bad I just kept thinking about how hard my friends would have been laughing if they had been there to see the carnage.

What does that moment mean to you in hindsight?

I would say that moment shaped me in that I never want to perform in front of someone who has seen me naked ever again. JK. Every bomb shapes you. Every failure makes you stronger and wiser in all facets of life. If you’re not bombing at all, you’re not a good comic because you aren’t taking any risks or trying anything cool. If you’re bombing all the time, you’re also not a good comic. You suck and should quit. JK again. The goal is to have a high success rate mixed with a few inevitable bombs that are unavoidable because you’re pushing yourself and trying to grow. It’s also important to try to not operate from a place of fear. Every time I bomb, it makes me work harder and really assess what I need to improve on. You gotta bomb sometimes bitch!

Shalewa Sharpe

Shalewa has been a comedian for eight years. You can follow her @silkyjumbo and check out her album “Stay Eating Cookies” on iTunes (or Amazon, Spotify, Pandora or SiriusXM).

Tell me about a standout memory from earlier in your career that still makes you cringe or laugh or both.

I started doing comedy in Atlanta, which sometimes meant telling jokes in places that weren’t built for jokes. God bless the general manager of any sports bar who looked around a half-filled room and thought, “Yeah, stand-up comedy during the playoffs is a good idea.” So many levels of delusion.

I was doing a show at a sports bar located in the outer reaches of metro Atlanta. I’m not sure if it was playoff time, but the game was definitely more important to most of the patrons. The producer managed to get the television in our section turned off. There were people facing the stage and ordering food. Things were looking good.

The first couple of comedians performed and the audience seemed to not like them. I could only go by the way the audience ignored the comics and talked loudly amongst themselves. After a while, it was my turn. I hit the stage as the hot wings hit the table. Somehow, I was ignored HARDER than everyone else. I kept talking, because that’s what I was supposed to do.

Suddenly, a few people laughed. Then more people. I got excited. They weren’t laughing at the expected times — like at punchlines — but they were still laughing! Then somebody pointed behind me. I turned around. There was a kitten crawling out of the speaker.

The show producer used his own PA system, which he stored in his garage. Also in his garage was a litter of kittens. One of the kittens climbed into a speaker and (I’m assuming) slept all day until halfway through my crappy set.

The audience loved it. I made a half-hearted pussy joke and got my first laugh of the night. At the end of the show, the host announced that the producer’s wife had found a home for the kitten and the audience cheered.

How did it feel at the time and how does it make you feel now?

I felt utterly defeated. I kept saying, “What am I doing? Like, for real, what am I doing?” And to be honest with you, I don’t know if I currently have the skills to deal with a kitten in a speaker.

What does that moment mean to you in hindsight? Do you feel like it shaped your career or who you are at all?

At that time in my comedy life, all of my jokes were METICULOUSLY planned, so I was unable to “go with the flow,” as it were. Since then, I’ve done many shows where I had to rely on my wits. I enjoy doing that. In some way, this helped me get looser, when has helped my joke writing. I can’t be sure if it has shaped me. I am a baby in this stand-up game; everything I encounter is shaping me. But I’d like to think I’d come up with a better “pussy” joke now.

Giulia Rozzi

Giulia Rozzi has been a comedian for 12 years. Listen to her podcast, Hopefully We Don’t Break Up.

Tell me about a standout memory from earlier in your career that still makes you cringe or laugh or both.

It was my first time emcee-ing on a road gig. There were three shows and, while the first two were great, the audience just didn’t like me at the third. At the end of my set, when I said: “You all ready for a fun night?,” an older man yelled, “I will be once she gets off the stage!” I lost it. I started making nonsensical jokes about how I was going to follow him and his wife to their hotel and tell them jokes all night. Then I realized he had a hearing aide and he’d been whispering to his wife and hadn’t meant for me to hear him. Worst part was, I had to get back on stage 20 minutes later to intro the headliner.

How did it feel at the time and how does it make you feel now?

It felt shitty, especially because I lost my cool. Now I laugh at the memory — it’s nice to see growth.

What does that moment mean to you in hindsight? Do you feel like it shaped your career or who you are at all?

I learned to not ever blame the audience. Sometimes a crowd is going to connect with you and sometimes they aren’t, but it’s the comic’s job to entertain, not blame and shame. I think a lot of comedians experience this when they start. But eventually you realize you just have to keep trying to win them over. And if you can’t? Gracefully accept that not everyone is going to like you.

Photos by Edith Young.

The post 6 Comedians on Their Most Embarrassing Bombs appeared first on Man Repeller.

Wait, Is Everyone Into Baths Now?

I have a theory and it’s that baths are trending.

It all started when I expressed my surprised that Emma Watson takes three baths a day. “When I found out my old coworker took a daily bath (like in a tub),” I wrote, “I asked her a new question about it every single morning. I needed every logistic. Suffice it to say, baths deeply confuse me. I wonder about the whole bathing-in-your-own-filth thing.”

This struck a cord and the comments below were rather contentious:

Said commenter Lyla, “Bathing in your own filth…what filth? It isn’t like I’ve been working in the fields all day. I wouldn’t do it if my body was caked in mud, but baths clean you.”

“I thought the same re:baths,” wrote Hannah, concurring with me. “Also, WHERE DOES SHE FIND THE TIME?!”

“LOVE baths,” replied KC. “So happy to hear someone else enjoys this passion of mine just as much.” Two others replied in agreement.

“I want to be the type of person who enjoys baths, I think it’d make me a better person,” wrote Kristy.

“Taking a bath requires a great deal of water compared to an average shower,” Lychette pointed out. “Taking two to three baths a day is a massive amount of water for a household. Not a very sustainable thing to promote.”

“BATHS ARE THE BEST THING EVER,” Marguerite comment-shouted.

Many more chimed in. To my surprise, most were pro. Many confessed to bathing every night! I was shocked. Could this be representative of the population, or does Man Repeller unknowingly attracted a disproportionate number of bathers? It called for more research.

In 2011, Allure published an article titled, “Does anyone take baths anymore?” After playing a game of “shower or bath” with a bunch of celebrities, they came to a fairly conclusive answer: No. “No one ever chooses bath. Not Kate Winslet, not Rihanna, not Fergie, not Heidi Klum, not an A-list soul. Reasons have ranged from time concerns (Rihanna) to Fergie’s hilariously graphic explanation that she didn’t want to watch the bronzer she wore onstage rise to the top of the water.” They clearly did not speak to Emma Watson. Or perhaps they did, but baths weren’t hot yet, so to speak.

In 2012, Tom Ford told Harper’s Bazaar that he takes four baths a day. Four! One at 4:30 a.m., 9:15 a.m., 6 p.m. and 10:30 p.m. “I find a bath meditative,” he said, offering little more in the way of an explanation. This news seemed to ripple across the internet — proof, perhaps, that baths were not mainstream. Per an article in GQ, by 2015 he was down to just one bath, taken daily by candlelight at 4:30 a.m. with a huge iced coffee. But still: a bath.

Had anything been published more recently to prove a shift in A-list bath attitudes? A Life & Style article from 2016 called “Celebrities Who Don’t Shower” seemed promising initially, but it turned out to be a weird, unhelpful slideshow about stars with body odor.

A trail of mainstream attitudes, however, proved easier to sniff out. In 2015, evidence began surfacing: “Baths Are For Gross People,” wrote Deadspin in 2015. “5 Reasons Why You Must Start Taking Baths,”  published XO Jane around the same time. “6 Health Benefits of Taking Baths,” wrote Bustle, a year later. A marked shift in bath tone. Another year later, perhaps capitalizing on the chatter, the Huffington Post published, “Finally, Answers to the Shower vs. Bath Debate,” which clocked showers at a slight advantage to baths (they’re better for skin and the environment). “5 Times Taking a Bath is Better Than Taking a Shower,” countered GQ in March of this year.

It’s hard to say for sure whether the above evidences bath normalization, but I’m of the opinion that it’s there if you read between the headlines.

BATHS ARE ON THE BRAIN, LADIES. Let us not forget last year when everyone started doing photoshoots in milk baths. Or when creepy gifs of black bath bombs took over the internet for 48 hours. It’s hard not to diagnose these as symptoms of a bath comeback.

Harder still is to have a conversation about slow-motion dipping your body in warm water for relaxation without mentioning self-care, the biggest trend to hit millennials since unlimited texting. “Soak, Steam, Spritz: It’s All Self-Care,” wrote The New York Times last December. “The term [“self-care”] has been inescapable online. A search on Google Trends showed that [it] peaked in search interest popularity from Nov. 13 through Nov. 19, the largest increase in the last five years.”

Now seems like a good time to mention that a search of the word “bath” on Goop.com returned 5,850 articles.

I want to be surprised but I’m also not surprised.

A quick poll of the office brought a couple of themes to light: The first being most people here don’t take regular baths — not out of bath-spite, necessarily, moreso because of time; the second being most agreed baths are not a substitute for a shower, but rather a separate luxury, like a face mask or a manicure. Interesting.

Which brings me to you. Please weigh in officially as to whether you’re in the bath camp, what that means for you and whether you agree baths are trending harder than camo rn.

Photo by Krista Anna Lewis.

The post Wait, Is Everyone Into Baths Now? appeared first on Man Repeller.

One Dress, Two Ways: Girls’ Night vs Date Night

Do ever think about how you would dress if you were going on a date or, conversely, if you were about to spend an evening with a bunch of your girlfriends? I don’t think about it very often given that I am married to my favorite girlfriend but when I was single, I soooooo remember how differently I would approach date dressing and girls’ night dressing. It is part of the reason I started Man Repeller! But that’s another story.

Surprisingly, seeing my girlfriends was always a more difficult occasion to dress for. That shit was an ongoing runway show wherein Blackberry phones were the street-style camera. When dressing for a date, it is almost always easier to “play it safe.” Throw on a dress that doesn’t say anything and a pair of shoes and call it the world’s lamest outfit. The dressing equivalent of pale toast. Fine, but not particularly tasty. But after Harling pitched a story about what she wears when she’s dressing for her girlfriends, I got to thinking: If I were me but single, would the clothes I wear on a date differ from the clothes I wear in life?

Ultimately, I decided probably not — but this wasn’t for the reason you probably assume. (To hell with what a man thinks! Wear what you want, when you want! This is true, but also obvious, so why beat a horse?) Rather, I like that my clothes tend to indicate that I am a million different people. Sometimes I am super-sassy (patent-leather skirts), other times I am Amelia’s dream human, the artist formerly known as Muffy von Muffling (she lives in Nantucket and sails, wears lots of cable knit, etc). Sometimes I like to look sexy, or proper, and when I do, I go with that. Part of dressing for yourself is actually listening to your own cues, right? The point is: You don’t have to have a million different items in your wardrobe in order to lean into these identities. You can, for example, take a singular dress and make it say 100 things.

HVN dress, Gucci sandals, Olympia Le-Tan book clutch

See, this is the kind of thing you wear when you are damn sure you want to marry the person you’re dating. If you run into his parents, they will be like, “Ooooh, what a lovely girl,” not knowing at all that you murdered three people — one of which was your own aunt — yesterday! It is delicate and it is soft. Though it conceals the majority of your body, it still celebrates what is covered and in doing that, amends Adele lyrics when it says, “We could have it all.”

When you get a little creative, though, turning your closet into a hurricane and your person into its aftermath, you are left with this.

J.Crew jacket, 3×1 T-shirt, Rosie Assoulin knitted bra, Adam Lippes skirt, Alaia sandals, Pawaka sunglasses

So much more fun, right? Much more pointed! The kind of thing you wear when you don’t know what you want to say but do know you want to say something. Everything, as a matter of fact. In this look you are singularly telling the world that you have no idea what you’re doing, but that you’re committed to that. You commit! It’s a good look for a night out with your female friends (provided they enjoy outfit dissection) because there are so many variables at play, and a great look for a night out with yourself because you can spend a lot of the night trying to figure out who you are.

I know that example took a dress and made it say two things, not 100, but the year is young. Stay tuned.

Photos by Edith Young.

The post One Dress, Two Ways: Girls’ Night vs Date Night appeared first on Man Repeller.