By Nicci Jordan Hubert

When I first moved to New York, I was hired at a big publishing company, an experience which I’d fantasized about most of my life but which quickly turned sour, thanks to a Devil-Wears-Prada-esque boss who told me she wanted to “crush my face.” Disillusioned, I swore off publishing and went to work as a receptionist at a medical day spa on the upper east side, owned by a renowned plastic surgeon. This was before the financial crisis caused the spa to close. It was a time when medical facials were considered a necessity, not a luxury, and where UES ladies in fur coats were as ubiquitous as NYC parking tickets. I became familiar not only with the ins and outs of good, scientific esthetics, but also the contours and the width of the American Express Black Card (its titanium is nearly as thick as the hard cover of a book). The estheticians at the spa were medically trained, and worked with products that combined essential oils with top-level chemistry. My face looked and felt like a 16-year-old’s when I worked there, thanks to the legendary employee perks of the financially confident, indulgent aughts.

About nine months later, I came to my senses, and returned to work in publishing, but I was left with an indelible sense for what constituted a good facial. And let me tell you something: for as much as NY has a reputation for having top-of-the-line everything, it seems almost impossible to get a good facial here. Almost every spa I’ve patronized since working on the UES has provided only the most basic–and the least scientific–of services. A scrub (or at best, an enzymatic) exfoliation. Painful extractions. Inappropriate use of oils. I even recently had a facial at one of New York’s most upscale spas–as a media guest at that–and the esthetician botched it to such a degree that I broke out in practically every corner of my face. Oh, and her fingers smelled like cigarettes and her breath like tobacco-infused paprika. I learned a lesson about smoke and mirrors that day, my friends.

So last week, when I discovered that an esthetician I’d long-ago worked with at the Upper East Side spa had moved on to Paul Labrecque, I immediately booked an appointment with her, not caring what the cost. My face hadn’t been touched by experienced fingers for years, and I’d gone from looking 16 to looking my age, and that just wouldn’t do. Thank God—no, seriously—for Tatiana.

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By Nicci Jordan Hubert

I had the pleasure of joining the hair and makeup experts with P&G Beauty—Bruce Grayson, for makeup, and Marcus Francis, for hair—for some insight into this season’s hottest red-carpet trends. As we all learned from Meryl Streep aka Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, today’s runway is tomorrow’s mainstream fashion, so these tips and tricks can help us all get ahead of the game.

Check out the trend report at the end of this post, loaded not only with celebrity looks that Bruce and Marcus consider to be the hottest around, but also, some P&G products they swear by.

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By Nicci Jordan Hubert

My husband and I had the pleasure of trying the Restaurant Week menu at Haru Sushi in Gramercy. From the moment we walked in, we knew we were in for the perfect end to a long work day. There was something about the soothing entryway waterfall and dark-lit space that made us instantly shed our frenetic Friday energy and finally take a deep breath.

The food helped too. It was beautifully presented and carefully served. We loved the luxurious tuna tataki salad with delicious avocado slices; the fish was lightly seared and full of flavor.

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By Nicci Jordan Hubert

There’s no place quite like the multi-purposed Tribeca Cinemas to have a party, especially when Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto is in the house.

I had the pleasure to join the lovely people at Kikkoman for a celebratory event, which featured a showing of their new Make Haste Slowly documentary—directed by the Academy Award Nominated Lucy Walker—and a menu by Iron Chef Morimoto which showcased Kikkoman sauces. I had never tasted Chef Morimoto’s food before, and was curious it if would live up to the hype. For any of you who have been to his restaurants, you know: it’s not hype, it’s fact.

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By Nicci Jordan Hubert

I had the pleasure of attending RapidLash’s uber-stylish party at 48 Lounge in New York recently, the party being, in essence, one big wink to lashes (eh?). Everything–from the lavender cocktails with edible flowers to the never-ending plates of tuna tartar–was beautiful, and had me convinced that the people at RapidLash are serious about their product.

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By Nicci Jordan Hubert

Sometimes, it’s just a straight “I Hate NY” kinda day. It’s been like that for me lately. Every time I try to get a cab late at night to take me to Brooklyn, I shake my fist at the sky and smite this God-forsaken city. And when it’s raining, and I slip and fall down the subway stairs, I eventually cry tears of fury as I squeeze my way onto an overcrowded train, standing at everyone else’s armpit level (I suppose I should blame my short height on nature, but NO. It’s New York’s fault, too). Just about every New Yorker will agree: this city can be alarmingly abusive. Why do we stay then?, ask our out-of-state friends, who are in healthy relationships with their cities.

Well, we stay in this abusive relationship because sometimes living in New York can be so damn romantic. It can be utterly shimmering, and, every once in a while, it wraps you in its arms and makes you feel like you’re the most important, happiest person in the world. There is no city like this city, and you know it. And it’s so handsome. And you can’t believe it chose you. And… and…

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