We can thank Miuccia Prada for the fact that I am considering disheveling an impeccably pristine blowout. You see, earlier this year, on Miu Miu’s fall 2023 runway, the Italian designer unleashed a parade of models whose flyaways and sculptural static were as thrilling as her crystal-encrusted knickers. That the undone hair topped off otherwise meticulous lengths made it not only stand up but stand out. Emma Corrin’s cowlick—rivaled perhaps only by the signature style of The Little Rascals’ Alfalfa—went viral moments after the actor closed the show.
“The nuance of having just that one area lifted feels really fresh,” says historian Rachael Gibson, noting that the I-can’t-bother-with-a-brush rebellion has its roots in 1960s counterculture. Before then, she’s quick to point out, any above-the-neck disarray was considered “a sign that something was wrong in your life.” (In one hair-raising instance from the 19th century, it even resulted in death: As historian Sonya Lipsett-Rivera reports, one Simón Antonio Retama stabbed his wife after she returned home with what seemed to him postcoital tresses.) These days, though, amid the buttoned-up tendencies of modern life, Miu Miu’s controlled chaos came as a welcome clarion call for letting (a little) loose.
“We all try for perfection, but sometimes it’s when the mistake happens that the magic happens,” backstage hairstylist Guido Palau tells me. But, this isn’t just messy hair, he stresses. Only after pulling models’ smooth, blow-dried lengths into sleek ponytails did he rub an inflated party balloon over the crowns of their heads to achieve the shapely static electricity, which he then locked into place with a spritz of L’Oréal Paris’s Elnett Satin Extra Strong Hold Hairspray. In other words, the seemingly slapdash style requires more effort than merely embracing the elements.
“For so many years, I talked about taming flyaways. Now, I’m actually trying to create them,” agrees celebrity stylist Mark Townsend, who notes that his Hollywood roster—
Dakota Johnson, Aubrey Plaza, Rachel Weisz—is more and more frequently requesting artfully tousled locks. “When the hair’s too done, it can take away from them just being themselves.”
I swore off hot tools in favor of air-drying years ago—and yet, I still relish the polish of special-occasion only pin-straight tresses à la Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy. It is, David Mallett says, exactly the kind of contrived coif that sends a shiver down the spines of Frenchwomen. “The girls here say that your hair has to breathe, like the person who wears it,” muses Mallett, whose Second Arrondissement salon often caters to Rebecca Dayan, Charlotte Gainsbourg, and Léa Seydoux the day before they are due in front of the camera. After all, he adds, “Nonchalance is the ultimate French beauty attribute.”
I wouldn’t mind adopting a dash of come-as-you-are chic—and where better to do so, I figure, than Chanel’s Tribeca Film Festival Artists Dinner? Just how far am I really willing to go in matters of mess though? It’s been nearly two decades since, as a teen, I took a cue from Mary-Kate Olsen and went two weeks without combing my waves, relenting only when my mother threatened to chop it all off. As The Row cofounder has gone on to show in recent years, however, a subtler suggestion of disorder can add an element of intrigue—especially when paired with her brand’s exquisitely tailored garments. “It’s a nice juxtaposition when your hair’s a little off and you’re dressing in a very mannered way,” Palau explains. “It makes people think, Oh, she’s interesting.” Nevertheless, when my Uber pulls up, my blowout is still as ruffle-free as the silk georgette Khaite slip I’d unboxed just moments before. Out of fear that I won’t make it past the velvet ropes of the French house’s annual soiree, I opt not to arrive with a single strand out of place.
But, once safely inside, I tie my lengths up and—for the finishing (unfinished) touch—rake my fingers through my roots from back to front. The result—romantically rumpled, surprisingly refined—lends my all-black ensemble a singular edge. Have I, I dare to wonder, finally achieved that ever-elusive je ne sais quoi?
The next morning, I put my coif (and newfound courage) to the test at a midday meeting at La Grenouille. When I arrive at the elegant Upper East Side restaurant, where Deeda Blair once regularly dined with her signature bouffant, the maître d’ whisks me to a banquette in the center of the room without batting an eye. Among the immaculate manes of today’s lunching-ladies set, the tuft of hair perched atop my head certainly makes its presence known. And yet, I am delightfully unbothered as I remember Palau’s parting words of encouragement: “You have to pretend you don’t care—even if you do.”