San 'Fro-cisco

I'm in San Francisco this week, enjoying its wonderful sights and tastes and smells and friends as I often do. This city is aesthetically one of the most pleasing anywhere, but it does have one significant drawback for the glamour-obsessed, besides the inability to wear very high heels unless you are certain you will be in a very flat part of town (of which, of course, there are few) or driven to your door in both directions.

The City by the Bay is, of course, known for its fog, as a chorus of harmonically aligned fog horns makes clear on many days and most nights. The thick mist is beautiful and romantic, but, as a very long walk Sunday through the Presidio, out to the Pacific Ocean and along the dock of the bay reminded me, it is not especially kind to a carefully managed hairdo.

My chin-length brunette tresses, which at their best resemble Elizabeth Taylor's hairstyle circa 1957, became what some might call ringlets. Lovely on Andie MacDowell in Greystoke. More like a Jewfro on me.

I'm not a self-hating curlyhead; I've never ironed my hair, nor have I had it straightened. I'd just like my hair to do what I want it to. Of course, I am not alone in this, which is why hair care is a multibillion-dollar industry. And the reason celebrities' curly hair looks perfect on screen, in magazines, and on the red carpet is that a stylist is standing just off camera with hair spray, a comb and a curling iron to reshape those curls.

So my hair wasn't perfect. But the walk was.

The Golden Gate Bridge from Baker Beach.