![]() I kept thinking, left or right, which way is the bathroom? Don’t stop to ask anyone. I turned around quickly, and walked without hesitation toward the brick office building, brown paper bag and books in hand. Certainly that couldn’t be Delta territory. ![]() I remembered the administration building nearby had a large bathroom. She’s not going to get me, and neither are all the damn letters of the Greek alphabet. Her pleated beige skirt didn’t look like me either and her round bubble hairdo didn’t move. Everything matched, from her white patent leather purse and white patent Mary Jane shoes to her powder blue fuzzy sweater with another tied around her shoulders. She was polished like an apple, like a picture on a package, like a television commercial. This Delta chick looked very different from Pacoima and me. I had never heard of the word sorority or known Greek letters had names. They just gave their gangs different names. The social scene at Hollywood High School was harder than Pacoima. ![]() So don’t sit there either, unless you’re an Alpha, a Beta, a Lambda, or a Theta.” She looked me up and down. And those benches over there”-she pointed to another and another-“is the Thetas’ bench and that one is the Alphas’. And that other tree over there”-she pointed-“that’s the Betas’ bench. “You can’t sit there either,” she barked. I walked over to the other side of the bench around the big tree. No one else was wearing a tight pegged calf-length skirt, a black sweater with a false collar tucked in, a stacked pachuca hairdo adorned with spit curls on each side, and dangling Mexican earrings. I felt the pencil melting off my arched eyebrows and my red lipstick cracking. She looked at me like I was a Christmas decoration at an Easter party. I didn’t see a sign that said Private Property. Who was she … the quad police? And what the hell was a Delta anyway? I had never heard of a quad before this school. I was sitting on a bench in the quad area. It was my first day at Hollywood High School. “Well, you can’t sit there if you’re not a Delta.” “Excuse me, but are you a Delta?” a girl asked, talking down to me. An unflinching portrayal of addiction and recovery, Upper Cut proves that even in Hollywood, sometimes you have to fight for a happy ending. But she battled her way back, getting sober, rebuilding her relationships and her reputation as a hairdresser, and today, the name Carrie White is once again on the door of one of Beverly Hills’s most respected salons. She fueled the frenetic pace of her professional life with a steady diet of champagne and vodka, diet pills, cocaine, and heroin, until she eventually lost her home, her car, her career-and nearly her children. Carrie was sipping cocktails before her tenth birthday, and had had five children and three husbands before her twenty-eighth. After her father abandoned the family when she was still a child, she was sexually abused by her domineering stepfather, and her alcoholic mother was unstable and unreliable. "synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.īut behind the glamorous facade, Carrie’s world was in perpetual disarray and always had been. ![]() She has counted Jennifer Jones, Betsy Bloomingdale, Elizabeth Taylor, Goldie Hawn, and Camille Cosby among her favorite clients.īut behind the glamorous facade, Carrie’s world was in perpetual disarray and always had been. As the “First Lady of Hairdressing,” Carrie collaborated with Richard Avedon on shoots for Vogue, partied with Jim Morrison, gave Sharon Tate her California signature style, and got high with Jimi Hendrix. īehind the scenes of every Hollywood photo shoot, TV appearance, and party in the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s, there was Carrie White. And I was becoming competition for my heroes. My appointment book was filled with more and more celebrities. I was making my mark in this all-male field. Shampoo meets You'll Never Eat Lunch In This Town Again in a rollicking and riveting memoir from the woman who for decades styled Hollywood's most celebrated players. ![]()
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