The celebrity manicurist Deborah Lippmann arrived at my apartment at 1:15 p.m. in the middle of fashion week, which was inconvenient for her — she was doing shows for Badgley Mischka, Victoria Beckham, Kate Spade, etc. — but exceptionally convenient for me. This imbalance was important because I was spending a week as the world’s most pampered woman, and reckless disregard for the convenience of others is a key aspect of extreme pampering.
I will explain. In my normal life, I am a writer. But for one week, as an Allure experiment, I spent my days as the world’s most pampered woman. I ate meals prepared by an elite personal chef, received a house call from Gisele Bündchen’s hairstylist, got exfoliated by Kim Kardashian West’s facialist, and applied $25,000 worth of serums and creams perfectly customized to target my specific flaws. Plus more. For seven days, pampering was my full-time job.
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Now I know what it’s like. And you will, too, because I am going to break down the seven truths of the world’s most pampered woman. Shall we?
1. She expects people to read her mind.
Lippmann lugged her manicure kit (a black Tumi suitcase that weighed about 300 pounds) up two flights of grimy stairs to my apartment, where my cat started chewing it. “Do you do a lot of house calls?” I asked.
“Mostly for celebrities,” she replied.
I nodded as though this were relevant to me. Lippmann filed, buffed, oiled, exfoliated, and decuticled my nails with her signature waterless manicure before asking what color polish I wanted. “You’re the expert,” I said. “What do you think?” She selected a screaming-red hue called It’s Raining Men, which was eerie because I wear only red polish.
“How did you know?” I asked.
Lippmann shrugged. She just knew.
When you spend as much time as Lippmann does around highly demanding clients, you develop an extrasensory ability to interpret unspoken desires. How else could you possibly survive?
My session with Lippmann spanned a long, luxurious hour, but if her VIP clients are in a hurry — and at this echelon, they usually are — she can deliver a flawless manicure in 15 minutes flat. Which brings us to truth number two.
2. She doesn’t have time for this.
The Julien Farel Restore Salon & Spa occupies 10,000 square feet of prime real estate off of Park Avenue and is home to the Power Hour haircut ($1,000), which can be paired with a simultaneous manicure ($75) and cappuccino for the woman who isn’t truly living unless she’s multitasking.
I began my session with a diagnosis: My hair was too long. “It is possible to go overboard with length,” Farel said tactfully. Because he is French and looks like Cary Grant, I submitted to his vision without question. He examined each strand on my head individually before snipping. After 40 focused minutes and around 10,000 cuts, my hair looked somehow both longer and thicker. This was mathematically impossible but empirically true. In the gleaming salon mirrors I looked like a painting of myself. I felt as if it might be appropriate for Farel to sign the lower right corner of my face.
My cut took place in the VIP area, which was surrounded by private suites (for celebrities and civilian men who prefer not to be gawked at while having their hair colored). Beyond the suites was the main floor of the salon, and as I wound my way outside I understood that the world’s most pampered woman is always insulated from civilians because...
3. You can’t sit with her.
For my Biologique Recherche Haute Couture facial ($25,000 for the full program, including seven months of facials, skin assessments, and custom products), I ascended to the top floor of the Peninsula Hotel and was placed in the couples suite, even though I am just one person. If there is one thing that distinguishes the ultrapampered from the merely indulged, it is privacy. The most pampered woman will always be separated from the outside world by at least three doors and, in the case of the Peninsula, a maze of intricate hallways to ensure that she will not encounter anyone who isn’t 100 percent meant to be there.
Because Biologique Recherche is a French company, my facial began with a series of very French questions: Do I smoke? Do I practice nudism? Do I enjoy basking in the sun? (Nah; no, but not ruling it out; yes.) My face was then scanned by a machine designed to reveal clogged pores, which was horrifying. I took a snapshot of the screen and texted it to a friend. “Your face looks like a poppy-seed bagel,” he wrote back. Another machine then used probes to measure my skin’s elasticity and “transepidermal water loss” (something you apparently really don’t want). My scores went straight to France, where an entirely new line of Molly Young Skin Care could be formulated. Eight customized serums and two creams arrived at my door a few days later.
But back to the couples suite: As with many French products — escargot, Roquefort — a Biologique facial is not for the faint of heart. For one thing, it’s cold. No hot towels, no steaming. Mine ended with an application of Cryo-Sticks, which are wands made of surgical stainless steel that tighten the skin until it’s as seamless as a tulip petal. Afterward, I was led to a lounge with gluten-free apple-granola bites and beds with fluffy, fresh duvets where I could, I guess, “recover” from my treatment in total lassitude. It was the most private place on earth. If I died there, I could go undiscovered for weeks.
Instead, I drifted into a nap, confident that I could go straight to lunch when I emerged because...
4. She wakes up like that.
Dara Liotta’s practice is located in an Upper East Side townhouse that feels less like a medical facility than the elegant home it likely once was. During our consultation, she explained the origins of her trademarked LitLift ($4,000). While exploring Instagram, the plastic surgeon had noticed an emphasis on contouring and strobing. Wouldn’t it be nice, she mused, if people could wake up like that instead of spending two hours with a blending sponge? Over two years, Liotta developed a method of employing Botox and fillers on six key points of the face to achieve contouring and strobing without makeup. The result lasts up to two years.
In the exam room, I reclined on a faux-fur pillow while my face was injected with hyaluronic acid fillers — Juvéderm Vollure and Juvéderm Volbella — and a vial of Botox. When I began to faint (needles!), a handful of candy was delivered and an ice pack was placed behind my neck. Then it was over, and a mirror was lifted to my face. The results were instant. I did not look unrecognizable; I merely looked the way I do in restaurants with flattering lighting. And I wasn’t even wearing makeup!
The makeuplessness was further facilitated by a visit to David Colbert’s office for the Runway Facial and Runway Legs treatments ($4,000 for both). They’re popular among (you guessed it) runway models (like Adriana Lima and Stella Maxwell) and actresses (like Chloë Sevigny and Michelle Williams). At the doctor’s airy loft, I was subjected to radio frequency from a beeping machine, chemical-peeled from head to toe, hit with 5,000 laser pulses, coated in serum, and finally soaked in LED lights to help the serum penetrate.
“How long does it take for the laser to stimulate collagen growth?” I asked, while an intimidating machine fired away at my thighs. “It’s happening now,” said Charissa Tagupa, Colbert’s colleague.
When I was finished, she held a mirror up to my face and said, “See? You don’t need makeup.” And she was correct. Most facials leave my sensitive skin hot to the touch and marbled like raw bacon. This one gave my skin a tight, dewy, all-the-same-color finish.
“How often do clients come in for this treatment?” I asked. “Once a month,” the doctor said. Quick math: I could stop wearing foundation for only $24,000 a year!
When my glow subsided two days later, I considered applying tinted moisturizer but instead booked a Tracie Martyn Red Carpet Facial ($450), which is beloved by Rihanna, Sarah Jessica Parker, Kim Kardashian West, and seemingly everyone who has ever attended an awards show. Upon arrival at the spa, I signed my name in the guest book right below a sweet note from Naomi Campbell and accepted a crystal tumbler of lemon water, then stripped naked for my Ruby Ray Treatment ($150 for 15 minutes). This involved climbing into what looked like a tanning bed, but instead of being bathed in UV radiation, I was surrounded by pink LED light designed to minimize stretch marks and fine lines.
A hallmark of extreme pampering is excess square footage. Surely there was no reason the Tracie Martyn facial room had to be the size of my whole apartment...but why not? In New York City, unused space is the ultimate luxury. My skin was swathed in pineapple-enzyme exfoliant ($90) and “resculpting” cream ($175) before being zapped with an electric current to lift and tone. By the time I left two hours later, I was starving, and not just any snack would do. I needed something tailored to my exact nutritional requirements, because...
5. She customizes everything.
Off-the-shelf green juice is fine for civilians but hardly adequate for the world’s most pampered woman. The following morning I woke at 6:15 a.m., when a courier buzzed my doorbell. He had arrived to drop off a cooler of meals from Portable Chef ($707 per week), a service that prepares organic meals tailored to the pickiest diets. Mine specified no eggplant, no pork, low sugar, and a total of 1,500 calories, which is a number I picked because I thought I’d read somewhere that Kate Hudson eats 1,500 calories a day. I fetched my cooler and returned to bed, falling asleep to thoughts of breakfast: a whole-grain German apple pancake, probiotic yogurt with lemon zest, slow-cooked strawberry puree, and the world’s tiniest handful of toasted slivered almonds.
The sustenance was necessary for my appointment at the Plaza Hotel, where I met Ben Krigler of the iconic Krigler perfume house to begin the process of crafting a bespoke fragrance ($50,000). The company is sort of like the inside of a private jet, in that you need to belong to a certain tax bracket to be even vaguely familiar with it. Everyone from Grace Kelly to Audrey Hepburn wore Krigler fragrances; Ben is the fifth--generation heir to the throne. We sipped champagne in a penthouse suite. “When you create a custom perfume, you become a perfumer,” Krigler explained, as he guided me through a lengthy interview that included questions like “What was your favorite cake as a child?” (lemon) and “What is your favorite season?” (autumn).
Then Krigler spritzed perfume on paper testers, passed them to me, and observed my reactions. I liked the black tea notes from one, the fig notes from another, the violet from a third. So as I was becoming a perfumer, it dawned on me: This is what billionaires are buying when they sit down to make a bespoke scent — the opportunity to create a work of art without undergoing the decades of training that underpin Krigler’s craft. What they’re purchasing is a scent. What they’re paying for is the opportunity to feel creative.
After we finished, Krigler would send a recording of our interview to his staff for analysis, and the process of formulation would begin. It takes months and cannot be hurried.
But the perfect scent, he said, is worth the effort: “Life is very difficult these days, and people want a perfume that makes them feel better. It’s like having a truffle on your pasta.” I appreciated his honesty. In fact, I’d come to expect it, because...
6. She doesn’t care for sugarcoating.
As with any important person, the arrival of Harry Josh was preceded by the arrival of Harry Josh’s assistant, who appeared at my house 15 minutes early to set up a proper work area for the man who styles Gisele, Karlie Kloss, Lily Aldridge, and Miranda Kerr. (His house calls, he says, cost “in the four to five figures, depending on services and timing.”) When Josh arrived, I told him that I wanted my hair to drape like Lily Aldridge’s. He gave me a look. “You have a cowlick right” — he gestured at the front of my head — “here. That’s why there’s always one little piece whisking in the opposite direction.”
Using a series of clips and targeted multidirectional blow-drying with his new Harry Josh Pro Tools Ultra Light Pro Dryer ($349), he corrected the cowlick. “But,” he warned ominously, “it will always come back.”
“Will I ever have the Lily Aldridge drape?”
“No,” he said. “But you don’t need it!”
When you pay to have a session with Harry Josh, you are buying straight talk (no drape for me) and a diagnosis of your styling troubles (nobody had ever told me I had a cowlick). After he left, my hair looked so good that I decided I needed makeup to go with it and asked makeup artist Aliana Lopez — who primps the likes of Sienna Miller — for a visit ($750). The only problem was that I was going to dinner with my family in 40 minutes, so the job had to be done in the back seat of a cab. “No prob,” said Lopez.
We hopped in a car. I showed her a photo of Elle Fanning with fantastical glittery eye makeup. “That’s way over the top for a family dinner,” Lopez said, not mincing words. “How about a shimmery copper eye instead?” Before the ride was over, she’d finished the look with powder and coral lipstick guaranteed to last through multiple servings of enchiladas. I hadn’t even thought to stipulate long-lasting lip color, but I didn’t have to, because...
7. She doesn’t sweat details. She pays other people to sweat them for her.
My eyebrows are fine but not perfect, so I paid a visit to the TriBeCa studio of Piret Aava, aka the Eyebrow Doctor, who tints and microblades the brows of clients like Serena Williams and Olivia Palermo. I was antsy because my brows are already thick and because I’ve seen some truly dreadful microblading. I told Aava that I didn’t want to look like Eugene Levy, and she suggested that we add six strokes (read: hairs) to my brows in strategic places. Great. I reclined in the chair. “Little scratches!” she chirped, tattooing six hairs on my face. The results? My eyebrows looked exactly the same, but more symmetrical. Love! My new brows cost $1,500 — that’s $250 per hair. “It’s an investment for your face,” Aava said wisely.
By the time I made it uptown to the Mark Hotel for an impromptu staycation in the 1,100-square-foot Madison Suite ($2,375 per night), I was so overpampered that I could barely speak. I was, however, able to squeak out a room-service order for salted butterscotch pudding ($17) with a side of whipped cream. “The pudding comes with whipped cream,” came the reply. “I know,” I said. “But I’m going to need extra.” Rich people, I’ve noticed, don’t want things. They need things. I need you to bring me a size 2. I’m going to need an extra massage. “Want” is too low priority, as verbs go.
The hotel suite had two bathrooms, so I took a shower in each one and used up two Italian robes and drank half a bottle of champagne before sprawling out on an acre of stratospheric-thread-count Quagliotti bedding. And with that, my decadent week was over.
And not a moment too soon, because I was bone tired. It was a faux exhaustion, not an earned one — the kind of fatigue you feel after spending the whole day in a car or on a plane. The point of being the world’s most pampered woman, of course, is that pampering is your work. But I’d never want to do it full-time.
A version of this article originally appeared in the December 2017 issue of Allure. To get your copy, head to newsstands or subscribe now.
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