Braided beauties and botox at the Brad Ngata party

Brad Ngata, centre, and entourage

Brad Ngata is one of those hairdressers who gets profiled by Vogue. I’m on the invite list for a party at his new Crown Street salon. I dream Brad himself will catch sight of my hair – which is thick, coarse, black and falls in glossy waves beyond my waist – and will want to make my head his magnum opus. Maybe he’ll fall in love with my hair and want to revolutionise it. Maybe.

The party has a big sponsor logo-splashed board out the front where two name-checking sentinels stand. Inside, there’s a blunt-fringed cutie, a rare man with magical pastel dream-hair. I say, “You’re here to get me drunk!” and relieve him of a glass of champagne.

Thus hydrated, I start talking with a stranger. This is talking in the loosest sense possible. My mouth moves, then his does, then mine and so forth. As an exchange of information this is a bit of a failure. It’s too loud. Too crazy for pedestrian things like conversation. In any case, I’m grateful to have someone to wave my gums at. This is keeping me from my usual wallflower ways: cling to the wall, scoff the canapés, attempt an awkward compliment, repeat steps one to three. I’m better as an observer, not a schmoozer.

The disco balls are glittering near the bar with its choice of two flavours of boozy slushy: the pinkish one happens to be vodka, peach schnapps and cranberry juice and it’s delicious and potent. Ah, peach schnapps. I have it from Jeffrey Eugenides that “babes love it”.

I’m in a well-dressed, well-coiffed crowd. Some of them are even worth capturing on film. I’d like to be a slick shooter with a Terry Richardson-worthy SLR who can sidle up to a braided beauty and ask to get a picture of her coif; I can’t do this. Can’t shoot to save my life. Had to try this recently for work and for reasons unknown the soft setting was on and all the shots looked like the lens was thick with Vaseline, like we were trying to capture the cast of Days of Our Lives in their dewy youth, no wrinkles allowed.

In the end I grip my goody bag (travel-sized L’Oreal hair dryer, pamphlet advertising Botox (oh please), pointer to the Brad Ngata app that advertises his services for $20 for a fringe trim up to $250 for a style cut) and I walk off into the night in shamefully flat shoes.