Extreme makeover

Did nine hours of hair and nail extensions make me hotter, a hoochie or just a complete ninny?

By Helen Yun Wed May 14 2008

Photograph: Roxana Marroquin

Back when country-pop-music songstress Crystal Gayle—famous for her nearly floor-length hair— ruled the radio waves, I too was blessed with a Rapunzel-like hairdo. But post–high school, I’ve pretty much stuck to cropped coifs. I detest spending hours primping in front of a mirror, and I can’t summon enough patience to let my hair grow past my shoulders. Plus, after a decade of piano lessons (thanks, Asian parents!), I can’t bear to let my nails click on my Mac’s keyboard. Still, I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of lengthening my dead-protein parts.

So, I asked TONY to turn me into a Gayle doppelganger, with some wicked claws to boot. At the worst, I would end up resembling either a Barbie doll or the dragon lady from Big Trouble in Little China. At the chichi Warren-Tricomi salon (16 W 57th St between Fifth and Sixth Aves, fourth floor; 212-262-8899), my stylist Marc Mena predicts another result: “You’re going to look like Chocolate Chow Mein, scratching your weave with your nails,” he laughs. “Of course, this is no weave,” Mena quickly assures me. What it is: $4,000 worth of Great Lengths extensions (greatlengths.net), which last five to seven months. The exorbitant price is mainly because my layered ’do is the shortest that Mena’s ever lengthened, requiring bushels of tresses that he painlessly welds to my roots. In lieu of heat—the typical method for extensions—he employs a spiffy pincer-shaped gadget that emits an ultrasonic wave to adhere the strands to my own, causing the back of my skull to slightly vibrate with each bond (obviously, a strange feeling). Best of all, the foot-and-a-half-long genuine human hair is quite literally virgin: It hasn’t been colored, permed or processed and was donated to an Indian temple by brides-to-be.

After a marathon five-hour session, my neck now strains a bit to support my heavier noggin, and I later get a minor headache—which I’m told is normal for a scalp getting used to the added weight of extensions. However, Mena appeases me by remarking on how the new look makes my cheekbones pop and says that I can pass for “Pocahontas, Yoko Ono or even a stripper—whatever [I] want to be.”

Feeling liberated enough to twirl around a pole, I head down to Bed-Stuy’s La Madame Beauty nook (1959 Fulton St between Howard and Saratoga Aves, Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn; 347-756-3035), where nail artist Honey (call 212-920-1066 to make an appointment) crafts wild acrylic canvases. She painstakingly sculpts wet acrylic on the digits of my left hand (“you won’t be able to do anything if you have a full set,” she advises). It takes four hours to draw them out into talons swirled with gold, black and teal glitter, but the blingy results ($150) are worth it: My favorites are the rhinestone-studded stiletto nail draped with a chain and a Hello Kitty–pink model sporting a curvy, half-bitten silhouette. “That’s your delicious finger for all those people who say, ‘Mmmm, my nails are delicious,’ ” jokes Honey. Though my aching back, sore and stiff from sitting for so long, feels like karmic retribution for my snide comments about other people’s long scratchers, the spangly rainbow hooks look fierce.

But like any extreme makeover, my brand-new fabulousness demands major sacrifices, namely of everyday tasks. “How are you going to wipe your ass?” asks Rome, Honey’s boyfriend. I wave my right hand at him; however, pulling down my pants and dealing with closures of any sort—buttons, zippers or clasps—proves maddening. I barely manage to hook my bra the next day and never have been so thankful for elastic waists. When trying to grasp anything between my fingers, I feel like I’m playing a game of pickup sticks and am forced to type, cut food and turn pages with my unfabulous hand. Other major cons include how my cumbersome locks act as unwanted insulation on a warm day, the Marsha Brady–like upkeep (I frequently brush from root to tip to remove any tangles) and my hoochiefication (two coworkers remarked that I looked, um, skanky). Sure, I’ve gotten several comments about how hot I look thanks to my naturally curly hair, but I can’t fathom how other women function with acrylic tips and Beyoncé-like locks. I’ve already declawed myself and am pretty sure I won’t last five months with my girly locks. Sorry, Crystal, but a lyric by a fellow country crooner comes to mind: “I’m crazy for loving you.”

For the commitmentphobic

Skip the time-consuming process of hair extensions and acrylic tips with these clip-on tresses and press-on nails and an at-home acrylic-tips kit. Warren-Tricomi also offers a rental service ($100 per night) for Great Lengths manes.