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trichologist, an expert in hair and scalp problems. In the early sixties, he opened a one-man practice in London.
    “Charles Wintour originally came to see me as a client because his hair was thinning,” Kingsley says. “And he saw me throughout his life. He told Anna, ‘You should start taking care of your hair when you’re young.’ When Anna first came to me as a teenager, she didn’t have very much wrong, but I started treating her, too. I get people’s hair in the best possible condition, and then they can do what they like with it. It’s
like
going to a doctor.”
    Over the years, Anna dutifully used Kingsley’s shampoo, containing a formula based on the texture of her own hair, along with his exclusive hair tonics and conditioners. Kingsley also recommended that she take a lot of yeast tablets, but they caused constipation.
    After Anna moved to New York in the mid-1970s to begin her climb to the summit, she continued seeing Kingsley, who had opened a practice there. Kingsley believes that stress is bad for hair, and as Anna rose in the high-pressure fashion magazine field, jumping from one anxiety-ridden fashion editor’s job to another, her stress built up and she required his help.
    “How often I saw her depended on how stressed she became,” Kingsley reveals. “Her hair didn’t behave as it ought to have done when she was under stress, and sometimes Anna was under more stress than others.” Kingsley made a chart for Anna’s good and bad hair days, and every so often reassessed the health of her hair, depending on the highs and lows of her anxiety.
    Anna was among Kingsley’s first clients—a celebrity list that grew to include Cher, Jerry Hall, Mick Jagger, Ivana Trump, Sigourney Weaver, Kate Winslet, Candice Bergen, and Barbra Streisand, among others.
    Besides her hair, teenaged Anna worked hard at maintaining her skin. She read voraciously about ways to fight pimples, acne, and blotches—and how to deal with other teenage girl problems—in her gospel, the American magazine
Seventeen
, copies of which she borrowed from Vivienne Lasky, who had a subscription. Convinced she was going to have bad skin, and obsessed with keeping it clear, she went weekly to an exclusive salon on Baker Street, fancier than Elizabeth Arden, to get facials and was no doubt their youngest client.
    “Her skin was fine,” Lasky points out, “but she went to the salon every week
for prevention.”
    W hile Anna was sleek and chic, she was harshly critical and sarcastic, and spiritedly made fun of people who weren’t. “Anna
really
cared about appearance. She would point out another girl and say, ‘My God, look how fat
she
is . . . look at
her
face . . . look at
thatgi
rl’
s
horrible, curly hair,’” recalls Lasky, who had curly hair and became at times the target of her best friend’s biting tongue. Although both wore glasses—Anna’s were expensive tortoiseshell granny glasses—she ridiculed Lasky’s poor eyesight. “Anna didn’t wear her glasses all the time,” Lasky says. “She could manage very well without them, although sometimes she’d ask me who somebody was across a crowded room. But she’d be very critical of me and bitchy when we’d go horseback riding or play tennis because my eyesight was so bad. I had trouble seeing the ball. I couldn’t ride as fast as her. She could be mean like that.”
    From the time she was a teen, Anna was brusque and snarky—traits she inherited mostly from her father but also from her mother, who was known for her critical and sarcastic manner.
    Anna’s nastiness appeared calculated and was offensive, which made Lasky and others who were her targets feel terrible.
    “If I disliked anything about Anna when we were kids,” Lasky offers, “it was her rudeness on the telephone. Her entire family did it—they never said good-bye. They’d just hang up on you. With Anna, I knew it was coming. ‘Well, I’ll see you.’ Click. No good-byes.
    “My mother would