IMAGE IS EVERYTHING

When you go from making a healthy six figure salary to unemployment, you get resourceful, quickly. In some ways, the obvious restrictions make life simpler. No more shopping, no more Groupon purchases (mine never get used, anyway), no need to read Daily Candy for the latest sample sales or restaurant openings. Some overall basic housekeeping – minus actual housekeeping - another budget cut.

But one day, I received an incredibly tempting email offer, forwarded by my friend Jordan Feldman. Jordan is a tastemaker whom I trust implicitly. Once he went into an almost screaming diatribe about a medium-sized purse I wore to a party. “Are you going to L.A.X after this? Because that THING looks like a duffel bag. I would CHECK it.” Jordan's stylist friend, Amy Keller, was offering a closet-editing session at a “friends and family” rate, for a limited time.

I have always, always, always wanted a stylist. It is the ultimate Hollywood fantasy for girls. As evidenced by every grocery-aisle magazine, reality show, Red Carpet special and of course, SEX AND THE CITY. I longed for a more sophisticated wardrobe, dynamic color and pattern plays, and a strategy for all the clothes I purchased but had yet to wear. But a stylist was a luxury item, and only necessities were included in my budget.

But then I remembered the age-old mandate for success in Hollywood: IMAGE IS EVERYTHING. This was not a trivial motive, it was a strategic career move! Hell, this appointment might even qualify for a tax write off! And so, I sent an email with glee not guilt, and secured my special offer.

Amy the stylist showed up looking effortlessly rocker chic: a little Marissa Tomei by way of an Italian Mary Louise Parker. She was stick thin with brown eyes and beautiful olive skin. I can't recall her exact outfit, but I know that hot pink socks were paired with leopard booties. She was the perfect amount of intimidating. I mean, I wouldn't hire a fat personal trainer, or a suicidal therapist, so any potential stylist of mine had better pull off the impossible and then some.

We quickly established style icons given my predilections and body type.  After pairing a vintage turquoise silk skirt and yellow flutter sleeve blouse with black patent belt and heels, we decided on “Sophia Loren” with a Dolce and Gabanna vibe. Suddenly I had uniforms – and they were fierce. A grey sleeveless rocker tee tucked in to skinny jeans with boots. A leopard print pencil skirt with a black capped sleeve turtleneck and heels. It was just as I had imagined – empowered by my new wardrobe combinations, I finally felt like a fashionista.

Then Amy had me put on my black jeggings. For those uninitiated, jeggings are a jean as tight as a legging. I wore mine regularly with loose sweaters or long blouses. Amy grabbed a small sheer printed blouse. “Here, put this on and tuck it in with a belt.” A sheer blouse, TUCKED IN TO JEGGINGS?! This felt downright risque to me! AND IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH, she had me put on HIGH HEELED SUEDE BOOTS, SCRUNCHED DOWN BELOW THE KNEE.

“This is a chic going out outfit.” she pronounced with confidence.

“Amy, I CAN'T go out like this! I feel like Olivia Newton John at the end of Grease!”

“Lady, you have an awesome figure, what are you waiting for?”

I am not sharing Amy's compliment to incur your envy, or to imply that I am some sort of Victoria's Secret Model. I admit that I am thin. I also admit that I am on A.D.D. medication, and it has vastly supported my metabolism. So in some ways I am lucky, in other ways my mental clarity is just a pipe dream. Which would you prefer? But until Amy came over, I totally took my body type for granted. And if this stylist was telling me I had a figure to show off, who was I not to take advantage of it?

“Are you going out tonight?” It was a Friday, so I actually had plans to meet friends downtown. “Wear this, and just see what happens.” I felt like I was in costume. As a hooker, actually. But I followed my stylist's orders and headed out to a swanky rooftop bar.

Like a good stylist, Amy checked in the next day: Lisa. Did you end up wearing the jean, boots, etc.? Any feedback? To which I responded: Amy, I MADE OUT with a handsome black banker who followed me from the bar to the art show! He was literally OBSESSED with me, which never ever happens!!!!

This is a true story. Granted I had a few tequila drinks, as did he, but without even trying I managed to reel in this super handsome gentleman who made it his mission to chase me to the art opening. Where we were later admonished by a security guard for our make-out in the gallery storage area.

(Sidebar: I am generally not the kind of girl who likes good looking men. I prefer mutts to purebreds, and have historically been known by my friends as somewhat of a chubby chaser. It's not a fetish, but when you choose personality and character over looks, you generally end up with a few extra pounds. And while my former West Elm bed frame was likely not the highest quality support, it bent and then collapsed beneath the girth of a certain gent. AND I complained and got a store credit.)

And so, I incorporated Amy into my limited budget. Now I can show up anywhere, feeling good on the outside no matter how I feel on the inside. Which only goes to show that beauty really is more than skin deep.

So you want to know what happened with the banker, Scott? Soonafter we met for a proper dinner date. Armed with another great outfit and clear-headed sobriety, I checked out our potential.

“So I know you're from Chicago, but where did you go to school?”

“Harvard.”

Suddenly, this date was getting interesting! Scott went up about 50 points given his prestigious education. But he was younger than me, and it showed. He seemed uptight, defining himself by his new job and posturing as a cool dude. So I prodded a bit more. His mother had passed away recently, and he did not get along with one of his brothers, given the aftermath. Okay, now we were getting somewhere. If I see an opening for emotional subtext, I get excited. And start to dig for gold. As the evening progressed, Scott would make an inappropriately-timed but awesome sexy overture when we were mid-conversation. It seemed clear to me that he was transferring a lot of his emotions into... sexuality. Which I found compelling. I really didn't think he was the guy for me, but he was hot and I was unemployed.

By the end of our next date Scott was being awfully... persistent. But given that I now had a tenant in my guest bedroom (cost cutting measure!), I refused to take him home. I wasn't in college, he wasn't my boyfriend, and I didn't want to have to deal with potential awkwardness, or worse yet, real intimacy. And so I made a proposal: “Why don't we just check in to a nearby motel?”

I live in Echo Park, where on any given night a motel's inhabitants could inspire an episode of THE SHIELD. After a brief argument where I refused to give in to the logic of going over the hill to his place, I directed him to the ironically named Paradise Motel on Sunset. It was a cinematic looking place indeed, with a pink neon sign and single level of rooms facing the sloped parking lot. But don't think that I am entirely reckless; I made Scott go in first and suss things out, while I waited in his locked car. He deemed it fine and like a good date, paid for the room. In cash. They only took cash. See what I mean?

The next morning, as I walked out into the blazing hot sun, hungover with my black sunglasses and night-before outfit on, I felt a little like a character from a Tarantino movie. Or maybe Walter White in BREAKING BAD. Or Lindsay Lohan on any given day at all! And it was fun! Plus, if I wasn't going to dinner parties as half of a power couple, I might as well go full out cheap and tawdry. Because in Hollywood, the only thing worse than a bad image? Having no image at all.

Things with Scott didn't last, mostly because he answered the phone “whassup?” and never really communicated authentically. I offered to put him up for modeling gigs (with the chance for me to make commission) and he thought me a lunatic. But I'll tell you this, he was genuinely disappointed when I ended our tryst. I think, deep down, he wanted to connect, and saw some of that accessible with me. Maybe Scott was tiring of his own image, wanting to put it away like a well-worn parka you can't wait to hang up come Spring. While this is not an easy thing to do, this is where a stylist can compliment the work of your therapist. A new look might just liberate you to retire your old persona. And there's nothing superficial about that.

Stylist Amy Keller can be reached via her site AMY KELLER

This is an unabridged version of an article published by HOLLYWOOD JOURNAL