The Doctor Is In and Will See You Now

One of my favorite people in the building is my neighbor who came to the U.S. as a teenager from Berlin, his first home away from home having been born in Poland and lived there as a child. He is every woman’s dream European man—suave and cultured, he speaks five languages fluently although English, his fourth language, can wobble when he gets excited about something and, admirable trait #2, he is frequently excited about something. That’s another thing I enjoy about him, his contagious and unsinkable joie de vivre. Daniel loves life and embraces every aspect of it with heart and soul. He is a gourmet cook. He is the sommelier you want at your dinner party and, best of all for me, he is a walking anthology of contemporary culture, haute and base, able to engage in the most erudite conversation on topics ranging from the rise of impressionism in the ateliers of Paris to the dawn of disco in West Berlin to who’s doing what to whom in Hollywood. He knows music; you cannot name a piece by any composer or arranger he does not know. He showed me a picture of him on his first day of kindergarten. He is wearing a full tuxedo with tails and holding a baton. Opera? He can quote from any libretto and sing the major arias. Early jazz standards are his specialty and he has a record collection rivaled only by the Smithsonian.
.
Perhaps best of all, Daniel is a true wit. As we walked down Montgomery Street arm-in-arm one splendid evening, a disheveled and grimy man holding a “Jesus hates queers” sign called to us to inquire whether we have considered the wrath of Jesus as a consequence of our lifestyles (in truth, the man’s question was slightly more vulgar). Daniel, my elegant European prince, suavely replied, “The only Hay-Zeus I pay any attention to is the one who trims my bush and blows me.” Then, he swung from his shoulder a Prada bag the size of a steamer trunk and inquired, “You wanna keep your tooth?”
.
I should point out that Daniel was, at the moment, Danielle standing over six feet tall in his size 12W stiletto heels. Danielle is one gorgeous woman, I must say and I believe most would agree with me. She favors short dresses that show off legs Tina Turner would kill for, and accents her couture with Tiffany’s jewelry made in China by forgers so skilled even the people at Tiffany’s cannot tell the difference. The wigs, however, come from Japan and it is here—the hair—where no expense is spared and it shows. Danielle announces her arrival anywhere by fabulous coifs in sunset colors: orange, red, pink, purple, and blue. Often, butterflies or dragonflies adorn her up-do, never anything as mundane as a headband or scarf. “Puh-lease,” she snaps when I show her a Hermés I think would look good on her.
.
Going out with Danielle invites stares at a minimum and intrusive comment as a rule. Danielle embodies the essence of drag and drag, when done right, is and should be an affront to the dominant culture. I will return to this idea in another post but for now all you need to know is that Danielle confronts the world and engages on her terms. It’s one of the many aspects of her character I sincerely admire. Of the many schools of drag, Danielle is strictly illusion. Were it not for her size, one would never know Danielle is carrying a standard male package tucked up in her thong because Daniel is a certified, credentialed, card-carrying Hollywood makeup artist who worked at Paramount for years. He also did a lot of time behind the counters of Yves Saint Laurent, Kenneth Cole, and Chanel. Even better, he knows skin.
.
Daniel ministers to every woman in the building, guiding us through moisturizers, serums, firming lotions, and eye and lip restoring creams. His first gift to me was a collagen mask. I have been shopping with him and can attest to the fact that no sooner is he in the door than throngs of women begin to flock to him as he stands at the counter and delivers 15 minutes of spontaneous instruction on how to rejuvenate the face and décolletage. These women then trail after us buying whatever we buy and asking questions Daniel is always too polite to ignore. Every sales person in every store is dying to attract Daniel to their counter to tout their brand. It is the closest I will ever come to celebrity.
.
Daniel routinely monitors my skin and advises on product. Since beginning my regimen with him about four months ago I can honestly say I’ve seen remarkable improvement. I even have independent verification in the many compliments I’ve received in return for a half hour of work each night applying everything it takes to keep me from sliding further down the path to crone. When I jokingly suggested I’d reached the point where shaving would make more sense than plucking, Daniel immediately gave me a run down on the razors he uses to keep Danielle never farther than a makeup case away. He shaves everything—knuckles, toes, back, chest—as an illusionist would.
.
Hair, as one might imagine, is a big topic and I have received his version of a total smack down for the sorry state of my mop in that he gently knocked on my door one evening to inquire whether I was busy. When I said no and invited him in, he replied by hoisting his index finger in the air and actually running back to his own loft. When he returned, he had an arm load of gels, sprays, and masques to coax my hair to luster. Even the man who cuts my hair has remarked on the improvement.
.
The upshot is—I don’t even buy lip balm anymore without consulting Daniel. No woman in this building would. We are his loyal students and his living creations; his art extended from Danielle to all of us. So when you are at my loft for dinner or a party and an elegant and refined European man approaches you with the line, “I want to do you,” ask if his name is Daniel. If it is, throw yourself into his eager, hairless arms and whisper, “Je suis vôtre.”