Guess Who?

I have never been more right about anyone in my life.

Making Plans With Stephanie Herckheimer

By Observer staff writer
Party photographers didn’t always know how to distinguish Stephanie Herckheimer. “I was once identified as a girl named Stephanie Monahan (beautiful experience readers, the name is strictly a cooincedence!),” Ms. Herckheimer said the other night. “I first moved back to New York, and I was at the Whitney Art Party, and it was in a magazine called Manhattan Style, which does not exist anymore, and there’s a picture of me with my gold Judith Leiber bag, which I still have, because I think someone asked me to hold it up—Fancy! Hey!—and then they, like, misidentified my name anyway. But then everyone was like, ‘Oh, like, I saw a picture of you—but it’s not you!’ That was, like, my first picture in a magazine.” This was in 2001.

Ever since then, Ms. Herckheimer has worked away at the job of going out. She dresses up and shows up without fail, thereby eliminating the opportunities of misidentification.

On the hot evening of July 18, Ms. Herckheimer’s driver dropped her off at Rockefeller Center. She was clad in a What Goes Around Comes Around vintage psychedelic knee-length summer dress—hot pink, lime green, geometric. “My mom has a couple of really cool vintage things, but the majority of stuff she gave away to our housekeeper,” she said.

She also wore a Cartier love bracelet, a gold enamel Hermès bracelet, a Breitling silver watch, an Elsa Peretti Diamonds by the Yard necklace and Jimmy Choo heels. She is 29, and looks something like a girl from a John Currin painting, with shoulder-length gold-brown hair, and she goes to a lot of parties. “My mom helps me get dressed sometimes, ’cause I don’t—like, if I have something difficult, you know, to put on, I don’t have a roommate and I don’t have a husband or boyfriend, so like what am I gonna do? I’m not gonna call, like, a doorman or something!” She lives on 56th Street between Park and Lexington. Her parents live uptown, in the 70’s. Her father is a psychiatrist.
That night, Behnaz Sarafpour was having a party with Target up at Top of the Rock. At 6 p.m., there was a vast still-daylight view of Manhattan. Two unlucky women wore an identical Pucci ensemble. Everyone was talking about how hot it had been and where they would go to stay cool. Ms. Herckheimer does the Hamptons. “I think I missed one weekend so far,” she said. She stayed for 10 minutes, a single glass of champagne and a necklace-filled goodie bag. She was papped by a rosy-cheeked blonde from Paper on the way out.

Ms. Herckheimer’s friends, she said, are in fashion public relations or, “you know, like, media.” There are “a lot of people involved in charities, involved in fashion companies, and do P.R. for stores, different stores, and then you become friends with them, you know, and then they invite you, and then like maybe a friend of a friend sees you and then puts you their list,” she said. “Sometimes you’re on people’s list and you don’t know why.”

She went to Chapin, then to Princeton, where she majored in American history. Then she went to Harvard for a law degree. “I hated it, hated it, hated it,” she said. “You kind of keep putting off your life, what you wanna do when you ‘grow up,’ so I kind of went to law school because I was putting off figuring out what I really wanted to do, in a way.” She worked for Skadden Arps, but quit after a year and a half. “It’s kind of a choice between taking the path of least resistance—meaning taking a job at one of the 10 firms that offers you a position—or, you know, pounding the pavement, going out out, and finding something different.”

Her mother never wanted her to go to law school anyway. “I don’t know that she’s necessarily proud that I quit—don’t say that—I think it’s more that I don’t think she thought it was for me. I don’t think she thought that I was the lawyer type. Like, I’m left-handed! I think she thought I was more artistic.”
And so Ms. Herckheimer has no income of her own. “My parents enable me to live the lifestyle that I do. I don’t think that there is anything wrong with that,” she said. “I am grateful that I have the luxury to follow my dreams, which, of course, I am still trying to figure out what they are, and not work at some job that I hate because I need to support myself. Because, as everyone knows, even to live in a dump, the rents nowadays are just ridiculous!”

She is working on a number of projects and serving on benefit committees. “I’m helping a friend of mine get financing for a film,” she said. And there’s a lot to do, too, “in terms of press, in terms of events, in terms of wardrobe, in terms of everything.”

Ms. Herckheimer next took a cab to Lincoln Center. Bill Blass—well, his designer, Jose Solis—was showing fall clothes. “The couture shit rocks,” Ms. Herckheimer said. She used to model with Ford as a teenager, she said. “I think I started like around 8 or something and then did it till my late teens.” She was photographed on the way in. She had great seats, alongside the catwalk. Out the window at the end of the runway strip, gray-tinged Columbus Circle provided a backdrop for the show of updated classics.
There was an after-party, and there was Sarah Horne of Fashion Week Daily, a publication that Ms.Herckheimer described as “great—it’s like a high-school yearbook for the fashion set. It’s fun to go through it and see everyone you know.” She was photographed by a fellow employed by Patrick McMullan. “Don’t say I have a crush on him,” she said. “They’re so nice—and, yes, a lot of them are cute.”

It was only 8 p.m. Amy Sacco was having a book party at Barneys. “She seems nice,” said Ms. Herckheimer. The strict door policy of Ms. Sacco’s Bungalow 8 usually works out for her, she said. Barneys smelled strongly of cheese; the bar was hidden by a mass of people. “I do think that when you go to a cocktail party, there should always be servers by the door with wine and champagne,” Ms. Herckheimer said. “Then you can greet people with ease and not have to awkwardly excuse yourself because you want to go get a drink. I always feel terrible when I do that. That’s why you should get one as you walk in.” Still, there was Krug on tap. “I love it, everyone’s here!” she said. She turned to speak with Vanity Fair’s executive fashion editor, Alexis Bryan.

Ms Herckheimer made revolutions of the room. She said hello to George Rudenauer, who co-hosted the recent Save Venice party at the Boathouse, and Delphine Rubin, the head of public relations and special events for Barneys.

Ms. Herckheimer gave her thoughts on the current state of society. “Fashion and New York and society and Hollywood are kind of merging and becoming closer together. I think that’s largely because of the Hiltons. I mean, I think they were the first people who, like, bridged society and Hollywood—and you know, say what you want now, but now people are kinda following in that pattern.”
Dinner at Nello’s, on Madison, was on for 9 p.m., with a society journalist she’d picked up at Ms. Sacco’s party. Why had the army of photographers outside paid Ms.Herckheimer so much attention? “They just thought I looked pretty and was wearing a nice dress.” And does that attention constitute a pressure? “Pressure to look good when you go out? It’s more like, well, you have to be careful about recycling outfits, especially if someone takes your picture at an event—which is ridiculous, because no one is about to go buy a different getup for every night, which I suppose is why people borrow clothes every now and then. Or sometimes I see my picture and I am like, ‘Ugh, I am slouching again,’ which often happens if I am with someone shorter than me. Or ‘I should stop making that expression, or wear my hair a different way’—that sort of thing. But I have always been fine with what I inherently look like.

“That said,” she said, “I have never been one who enjoys spending half the day primping for an event, particularly a black-tie event. If you notice, I almost always wear my hair down, as I can’t put it up myself, and to me there is nothing more torturous than sitting in a chair while someone sticks pins in your hair and sprays it. I get really antsy.” Her hair is done at Louis Licari. “I just find all of that stuff, including manis and pedis, a big P.I.A.”—a pain in the ass, she meant, but put delicately—“and something that you have to do. I don’t see it as treating myself at all. I am so not a girly-girl in that way. Although I did once fall asleep while I was getting a pedi—I think it was before the S.A.B. event in February—and the woman had to wake me up. It was so embarrassing!” That time, the initials were for the School of American Ballet.

She tucked into her Paglia e Fieno au Gratin, which she called “upscale mac and cheese,” and talked about the future.

That is from the NY Observer, which was followed up by this article, also in the observer, calling out her fraudulent society credentials. She is a MESS.

Making socialite a Hay-list celeb

Launching oneself in New York society is a difficult proposition, so what's a wanna-be to do?
Aspiring socialite Stephanie Herckheimer gets a little help from her friends. Her paid friends, that is.
A graduate of Princeton and Harvard Law School, the 29-year-old Herckheimer quit Skadden Arps after barely a year and today is proudly unemployed. She gave a rambling interview to The New York Observer describing her nighttime adventures in social climbing and celebrity-shmoozing, dressing up in expensive clothes and attending parties in hopes of getting photographed.
But The Observer story omitted how Herckheimer spends her days: haranguing publicists, including the one her wealthy parents keep on retainer, in her quest to become a boldface name.
Lowdown has learned that New York publicist and Hamptons Magazine columnist R. Couri Hay, currently making the television rounds to dish about the demise of Christie Brinkley's marriage, receives thousands of dollars from Stephanie's mom and her dad, Manhattan psychiatrist Theodore Herckheimer.
For an estimated $2,500 a month, Hay helps the reed-thin Herckheimer get into exclusive parties and onto benefit committees. In one revealing E-mail to a fellow publicist, Hay mused: "She's really a nice girl. Gaining 5 pounds, she looks the healthiest yet."
Still, Hay seems to earn every penny. A Lowdown spy reports Herckehimer "calls crying when she can't get into events, which happens almost weekly." Another publicist who's fielded Herckheimer complaints said: "She harasses PR companies if she doesn't get on committees."
Herckheimer didn't respond to messages yesterday. Hay E-mailed: "I am happy to confirm that Stephanie is a friend of mine. ... I recently had dinner with Stephanie and her father in Southampton. ... I'd like to say that I try to be helpful to all my friends and this would on occasion include advising them on their philanthropic work, career moves and how to handle the tricky social waters that surround Manhattan society."
Hay also asked if Lowdown knows of a job in fashion PR that Herckheimer might be qualified for

Un Coeur en Hiver Chaud

You may as well know now, I'm, ahem... seeing someone. Aw hell. Whomikidding, Ive got a man. I never blog about my intimate life but it just seems like too big of an omission, like Im hiding something from you dear reader, and hide I wont. And we do all this great stuff together and if you dont know who he is then i cant mention him without you going "who?" and scrolling through past blogs to see if you can find the name, calling other readers "do you remember that guy? did she know him from school?" That type of thing. So now you know. Hes great. I love him. I havent asked him if I can blow up his spot in this thing so for now we'll call him "Rick." Rick and I have been together for about three months (so you can get on him about decreased writing frequency, its so much more productive to be single!) and he is an east coaster (boston...nobody's perfect!) who has lived in NYC for about seven years so knows a lot of fun stuff to do in and around the city. I think youll like him. He's awfully good to me, thats likeable. And Bub, I know youre reading this, hes jewish, both parents. Kenehorah. Ok, so if you dont know, now you know.

Most recently we've been taking advantage of the incredible Summer Stage concert events in central park. Last weekend we went to two in a row, these types of things make what I've dubbed "hot winter" in NYC worthwhile. Why do I call what should be summer hot winter? Why because thats just what it is! Its grey, overcast and with pretty solid chance of lightning storms and downpours, sound familiar? Like winter? Yes but! What you cant imagine, those of you who complain about a little seattle drizzle (I know it sucks,) is that during all of this textbook WINTER weather, its also very, very HOT! Thats right all of the above characteristics plus temps in the 90's and majority humidity. Hard to conceive of such a season, but Hot Winter is very real. Its happening right now. I mean RIGHT now, i just ducked inside the house as the gunmetal sky broke open, thunder crashed like cymbals directly over head and raindrops like squirtgun blasts pelted the hot steaming cement. Lightening just lit up the inside of my apartment through the skylight like a flashcube! The gutters look like a new orleans scene though its only been raining for five minutes. And, in case you needed reminding, its hot as a flatscreen tv on canal street. Anyway, they have a great concert series at central park (and prospect park) to try to distract new yorkers from the opressive misery of the city. And (even though youre often standing in a mudpit, soaking and sweating) it works, its a bandaid, but during the concerts you can genuinely enjoy yourself. Rick and I went to go see the algerian dj Cheb i-Sabbah on Sat night. He had a friend who was playing dhol (punjabi drums) for the show, there were three moroccan men dancers with beautiful long silky robes and metal castanet type bells, one of whom could keep his head bobbing in such a way that the tassel on top of his fez never stopped spinning. He could have a hell of a burlesque career... There was an incredible afghani tabla player there as well, and a kit drummer from Brooklyn and Sabbah on the ones and twos. He had performers from almost every genre of music that he drew from: two indian women did some Kathak dance, there was a STELLAR all male punjabi bhangra dance team, complete with bright satin traditional Punjabi costumes. How a man can wear a pink and white striped satin wrap skirt, a pink vest, a pink turban with a silver and white crease folded dinner napkin sticking out of it at a rakish angle and a choker of large silver beads and still manage to look not only straight (a feat unto itself) but attractive is totally beyond me. The team comprised mainly of med students from Cornell, which is hilarious. They were AMAZING. Reminded me of Pakistan and seeing the men dance at the Junoon show in Islamabad. There was an arabic style "bellydancer" and to top it all off hassan hakmoun came out and sang and played this primitive (!) looking guitar-y thing at the end and they all came out and danced a finale together. I found out afterward, talking to one of the punjabis a bearded young med stundent in a blue satin getup, that they put the thing together in about a week and a half and there had been no rehearsals with the whole group.

The next day we went to go see my favorite Senegalese hip hop group Darra J. Rick (ha! Rick!) parked pretty far away from the park (you never know when itll be the closest possible space) so we took a leisurely stroll across the upper east side, which was nice for me. I can never get enough of that area. We walked into the park and the cordoned off concert area. Right away something struck me as off, but it took me a moment to figure out what it was. First of all I can never see shit 'cept elbows and shoulders at senegalese shows and i had a clear and unobstructed view of the stage. That never happens. It also rarely happens that a large part of the crowd at any given Senegalese concert, hip hop or not, are wearing mexican wrestling masks. I said to Rick, "Rick...everyone here is mexican." he was like "yeah..." "No, I mean EVERYONE." He looked around and saw that indeed absolutely everyone in the entire Darra J audience was mexican, not puerto rican or any other latino anything, mexican. The place felt like a san jose flea market. So I asked a nearby Mexican what the deal was. Double bill, Darra J opening up for some band called Mal Vecindo or however you say bad neighborhood in spanish. There was a tremendously monotonous and boring congolese band inbetween that seemed to play the same song for about 90 minutes. I think there is no other place on earth where a Senegalese hip hop group could play to a packed house of 100 percent mexicans. Pretty well received though, i must say. the mexicans got into it. We left the congolese to hypnotise the crown into an afropop stupor and we went to go walk around the park and find a place to sit where he could be in the shade and I could catch some rays. ended up in front of the lake and spent a few moments talking about how much we didnt want to row around in some crumby rowboat as an excuse to kiss, who needs to risk a potential overboard and god only knows what absorbed from the water just for a canned romantic moment? We agreed that landed romance works for us, laughed about the hasidic family out for a row in the heat in full regalia and went to go meet my friend marie and her man for dinner in harlem.


I had an interview at another salon yesterday. It was good, had a phone interview and then shadowed at the salon all afternoon. The phone interview was long and somewhat tortuous but revelatory and good. He said there were a couple of red flags in my responses one of which was semantic but the other was how much Ive "moved around." He was concerned about my possible longevity. Ive done so many different things and held different jobs for a couple of years at a time. It is true and I was glad to have someone point something out that could use improvement, its always an opportunity for self discovery when someone is forthcoming with constructive criticism. I havent ever been able to imagine staying somewhere for years and years, or even wanting to. I think its time for me to do so, and to really carefully choose where I start to make sure that that is where I want to be for the forseeable future. I think I could be at this place for a really long time. Its a competitive interview process, and I think I have a good chance. Its a good feeling to feel like I really want something and have to work to get it. Such a change from the silver seattle spoon in mouth. Say a prayer for me!

It Always Pays to be Contrarian at Some Point in a Turkish Crisis.

I know thats right! I can never get through an entire turkish crisis without getting at least a little contrarian. Who can? Isnt that sentence inane? I read that on the Credit Suisse brief of the suit next to me on the six coming home from work, at almost nine pm. These people never stop working. It was in regard to some hand over fist type investment shit that I cant even begin to comprehend. Its amazing how money has it's own language...

So, nu? You can welcome me back, i just returned from seattle where I had a fabulous time. Fabulous thanks for asking! It was filled with momentous events. I married Carrie and Drew, to each other, sheesh, Im no swinger! I also did all the hair and makeup for the wedding. It was a little hairy. I was so crazed by the time I got to get dressed and get out the house that I didnt notice that my speech and their vows had fallen out of my bag. We were already a little late. When we got to the park and I went to get them ready and they werent there, I just cant describe the feeling of ruining someone elses wedding. Carrie was a little freaked but kept it calm as usual and just said "we dont have time to go back, just wing it!" I was gonna be god damned if I was winging her wedding. That I had worked hard on the ceremony notwithstanding, improv has no place on the pulpit. I commanded Ariel, who in general drives like a grandma, to drive as fast as humanly possible back to Carries house where we had all had such a great time getting ready beforehand. It was on e of those moments where you know right where that thing that isnt where it is supposed to be is, know what im talking about? So we made it to capitol hill and back in about 20 minutes. I was DREADING getting out of the car, fearing that the wedding was ruined and carrie would never speak to me again, or worse tell me it was ok, that she knew I didnt do it on purpose. I hate that! But Drew met us at the car and said that it was good, that my f-up had broken the ice and the tension and that everyone had started visiting and enjoying what really was one of the most perfect days Ive ever seen.
So, unrehearsed, I walked down the aisle (potentially the only time?) and took my place behind the green wrought iron music stand (that makes its usual home in my mom' s living room.)
Carrie and drew and parker, the only other person in the wedding party, took their places on either side of me and i began the speech. I really hadnt considered the weight of marrying two people. Not only do they remember you as part of the wedding for the rest of their lives but their parents and familys are looking at you as bringing their most precious life work into a new stage of life. Thankfully, I didnt really think about any of that until after the ceremony was over. I had to really project since the wedding was outside but they said they could hear me in theback, I asked. It went really beautifully, nary a dry eye in the house. I will never forget looking in drew's tearfilled eyes and saying "I now pronounce you husband and wife. " It was really amazing, that feeling. I may have a new career! Also, i accidentally said Dwew once instead of drew and people laughed so it gave me an opportunity to say "Mawwidge is what bwings us togezher today!" like the speach impaired preist from the pricness bride. That was a highlight. All in all it was a very complete and satisfying experience. Maybe one of my best.

I also served as a key witness in the trial of peacock v frost (a really wonderful couple of last names to be versusing each other, if versus you must) wherein my dear ex-roomate rachael peacock is suing the insurance company of Jason Frost for the fatal (not to her, thank god) boating accident which took place when he ran his yacht aground coming through the montlake cut a few years ago. I am a character witness to Rachael (because to crack four vertabrae in your back and be unable to work full time you are OBVIOUSLY a tax evader and a crybaby depressive) as well as the only person who can really prove that she was not out drinking with the others and therefore is not at fault, cause she couldnt have known that he would fall asleep at the wheel going 20 knots or some such madness. I know this because she was driving my car from her bartending shift at linda's, she went directly to the mooring place and couldnt go back to get the car after the accident. So I had to go get it two days later after the smoke cleared. I expected to have to haggle and sob story the parkinglot attendant to give me the car and cut the barrel of cement off my bumper but, as luck, and sheer percentages would have it, the attendant was ethiopian. Since my car was regaled with an ethiopian flag air freshener and a lion over metallic red gold and green rainbow window cling, he assumed it was one of his friends cars that they left there knowing he'd leave it alone! Dancehall saves the day. I didnt even have to pay extra! Jah RAStafar-I!

The testimony was weird. Since I wont be in town for the trial, they had to videotape me to show the jury. Racheal's lawyer was easy of course, and asked me all the right questions. The lawyer for the insurance company was a shark of a woman who asked me the same questions over and over in different ways trying to get me to contradict myself, and questions that had nothing to do with the trial, or things that I couldnt figure out why she'd be asking. Like, I called rachael succesful, and she was "so did you review her tax returns? How do you know she was successful? How about profit and loss statements? So her success was really just based on heresay?" or I said I took her to a lot of doctors appointments and she was like "what is "a lot?" could a lot be six per month? Did you take her to any physical therapy appointments? you dont know? maybe a few? which doctors appointments did you take her to if not physical therapy?" All that kind of crap which has nothing to do with Jason falling asleep at the wheel and running into the shore at four in the morning! She was just trying to shake my confidence and prove that Rachael was an already psychologically troubled person who was just trying to blow this whole "broken spine, shattered collarbone and emotional trauma after witnessing someone die in front of your eyes thing" out of proportion to fund her carefree, tax evading artist lifestyle. I didnt crack. And i wasnt totally able to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, as evidenced by comments like, I dont beleive Ive ever reviewed any of my friends tax returns, but i beleive them when they say they have an income." Bitch. Then as soon as the cameras stopped rolling she told rachael how much she loved her art and would like to hang some of it in the hallway of her office "after all this is over." It was so weird. I hope my testimony does some good. Fucking insurance companies. They could pay everyone with brown eyes a cool mill and still have some left over to provide new infrastructure to multiple developing nations and theyre fighting tooth and nail over less than half a million dollars.

So as the middle east gears up for WWIII, it gets less and less tolerable to work in an Israeli salon. I have never really liked Israelis as a people, as im sure you all know, and though i will always have a soft spot in my heart for Chaim and Judah, comments like "kill them all, I only care about my people" and "we are being attacked for nothing!" make it increasingly harder to keep my mouth shut. Judah told me he wants to start me on the floor one day a week but that he cant possibly take me seriously or build me a clientele on four days a week. I would have to be there five days. Every cell in my body was screeching on the brakes, NONONONONONO!!!! I cant possible come in another day! Is it even legal to tell someone if they dont work ten hours a week overtime that they cant have their job? Arent there labor laws? Anyway I know that when I really want something I have NO problem committing my time and if I had that strong of a death before five days reaction that I really am not in the right place (what, do I need to be hit over the head with an anvil? this is news???) That said, i have a job interview at a darling tribeca salon on thursday. It really feels like I could be at home there, i met the owner today, she knows Becca and has lots of seattle connections. I dont want to jinx anything but Ill let you know how it goes! I had two clients request me at the salon last week, and i took them! Its been fun transitioning out of shampoo girl.

A social worker called the salon and asked if anyone there would come to Sloan Kettering Cancer Research center to give a little girl a pre chemo haircut. Judah volunteered me of course, which was fine. im always happy to do things like that. I packed a little bag with a cape shears a comb and a spray bottle, pondered clippers in case they just wanted it all gone, and decided that would be traumatic and unceremonius. I walked over to SKC, the UES is home to many big hospitals in a three or four block radius. I took the M bank of elevators up to the ninth floor. The ninth floor is the childrens cancer ward and is painted bright pretty colors. I found Esther, who had called and had me come, and she walked me back to the room. The mom came out carrying a really tiny and adorable little girl, couldnt have been over two, with two sloppy buns of long brown hair at the nape of her neck. "What if I cant do it?" she said immediately, and her eyes filled up with tears. I wanted a moment to brace myself, plus there were so many signs telling you to wash your hands constantly and prevent transmission of virus(including doctors wearing pins that read ask me if ive cleaned my hands) that i suddenly felt like i had millipedes and potato bug size germs on every digit. "Let me go wash my hands, Ill come back and well talk about it. " I said. I came back and she was crying, "I know you think Im crazy, but im afraid itll make her look different and Im not ready. What if I wait and see how it starts falling out and then Ill call you? I guess its my way of being in denial that this is happening..." all the while her adorable little monkey was clinging to her and looking at me with these shiny blue eyes, hooked up to a rolling IV stand by several tubes. I told her of course she could keep her hair on. If it made her feel better than who cares? Its only hair and I could come back anytime. I did say that I thought it might be less traumatic to start the greiving process in stages rather than seeing her long hair coming all out, but that it was totally her decision. In the end she couldnt do it, which was infinitely sadder than if she had, and I left, assuring her that I didnt mind walking over for no reason. I hated crying in the elevator full of doctors on the way down... Im sure theyre callous to it by now, the cancer. It happens, children get sick and get better or get sick and die. We dont have room for all of us. But it was sad anyway. She was so little and her mom was so upset. I went back to the corny meaningless salon and felt deflated and tired. Blowout, root retouch, highlights, radiation therapy...all in a days work.