Margaux Hemingway has sleeked down by about 15 pounds over the last year, what with pursuing her cosmetic modeling campaign, prancing around the social circuit with husband Errol Wetson and fretting over the nasty reviews she got for Lipstick. So when she showed up recently at photographer Francesco Scavullo’s Manhattan studio for a Fabergé publicity session, he found something amiss. “Your hair,” he announced, “has become passé.”
Just as Margaux was batting her surrey-fringe eyelashes in distress at the thought of being over the hill at 22, hairstylist Harry King came to the rescue. “What you need is something fresh and breezy,” he said. Minutes later, what had been Margaux’s below-the-shoulder hair was mostly on Scavullo’s floor, leaving Mrs. Wetson with what someone was inspired to dub “the Margaux.” Its namesake gushed, “It’s fabulous. I hope Errol loves it too.” Errol said later that he did, meaning he was either pleased or recalling the old barber shop platitude that the only difference between a good haircut and a bad one is two months.