Bollywood Beauty Adventure

Taking a passage to India, our beauty adventuress meets with a Mehndi master, an astrology oracle, a makeup guru, and a cast of thousands.

courtesy of the Everett Collection
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Here I am, my first day in India, kneeling in this sanctum, head bowed, heart heavy, my mind spinning a roulette wheel of Life Questions, the black ball a whirling blur, finally dropping on this whopper: Of all the world's religions, certain that their beliefs are right and true and shall come to pass, which one has bet on the correct answer? Christians, Jews, Mormons, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Rastafarians, Scientologists, Mennonites, Bieberites—who will win the religion lotto? What is the jackpot? And how will those who played on a misguided team pay for their sins? The last question is of particular concern to me, as I'm famous for my bad judgment. I've never won anything but a Toto album in a seventh-grade dance contest, and I have an aversion to fire, not to mention brimstone (aka sulfur), which when burned at high temperatures smells like something you'd blame on the family dog.

My knees are getting sore. I came to Mumbai not seeking answers to these questions, but in search of Mickey Contractor—the Max Factor of Bollywood makeup artists, who has creative talent and beauty tips an inside trader would kill for. But my quest will have to wait until I'm done praying to the porcelain god in my bathroom, where, despite following the orders of my internist, Joseph Mulvehill, MD ("Drink only bottled water and break the seal yourself, no iced anything, no garnishes, no street food, no toothbrush under the tap"), I'm throwing up more than prayers, and suffering what locals politely refer to as "a running stomach." Take a tip from me: No singing in the shower.

Popping the Ciprofloxacin that Mulvehill prescribed in case of this emergency, I'm up and running, in a good way, dressing and tressing and stressing about where in this city to look for Mickey first. Mumbai, the star of Slumdog Millionaire, is a city of extreme extremes—equal parts jasmine and sewage; temples and traffic; boutiques and bazaars; vulgar wealth and abject poverty. Yet so many faces are smiling, even street beggars, because the overriding belief in this country is: If not in this life, then the next. The colliding classes and sensory overloads inspire Bollywood's over-the-top musicals and films, around 800 of which are produced every year. Mumbai is one big cast of characters where, just like in the movies, anything can happen.

Cue music. A knock on the door! A beautiful, mysterious Indian woman, plump in a purple sari and wearing Gandhi glasses and a long black ponytail streaked with gray, says, with a gap-toothed smile, "My name is Haresha. Twelve years I am doing Mehndi. You called for the Mehndi?" She holds up a briefcase. The music stops.

"Yes or no?" I wait for a clue. But Haresha just nods in that bobble-headed way that looks like yes and no at the same time. Uh, yes?

"Yes!" she exclaims. The music recommences, and she enters, pulling up two chairs, insisting: "Sit, sit!"

Haresha opens the briefcase and draws out something like a cake frosting bag. Inside is the brown henna paste used to stain hands and feet in intricate patterns. Protecting her dress with a small towel, she takes my right hand and places it upon her lap. She snips a teensy corner from the decorating bag and at hyper-speed tattoos an elaborate peacock on my palm, with cross-hatching and paisleys up to my fingertips. The longer the paste sits on the hands, the deeper the stain. "The darker the stain," says Haresha, cocking a drawn brow, "the more a man loves you." Which is why brides will keep the henna paste drying on their hands all night before their wedding day.

My left palm is decorated with a fancy fruit tree, my fingers covered in creeping ivy. The henna can last up to three weeks, fading gradually. Squeezing lemon juice on your hands before going to sleep at night keeps the color brighter longer. Before bidding namaste, Haresha flicks away a speck of the drying, cakey dye, revealing the strength of the stain. "Oh, no," she says, laughing. "Too much love for you!"

Who? When? Where? More importantly: How? Haresha just giggles, backing out of the room, her head bobbling, music fading as she goes.
I lie on the bed with my hands palms up, watching Dostana ("Friendship"), an Indian remake of I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry, starring the Julia Roberts of Bollywood, Priyanka Chopra, whose makeup artist is...Mickey Contractor.

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