Earlier this week, my friend Meb* and I ran rampant through the halls of the new Madame Mussauds Mollywood* wax museum on Hollywood Boulevard.  We’d been invited to a special “Friends & Family” Grand Opening party…a sneak preview for those who’d worked on the project. Armed with many free cocktails, an all-access pass and a digital camera, we went to town, taking pictures of the two of us mauling replicas of the world’s most well-known celebrities.

A kind of fever overtook us as we ran from figure to figure, snapping such classy shots as Meb grabbing Angelina Jolie’s boobs, me making out with James Dean and strangling Ah-nold, both of us sitting on Will Smith’s lap and doing bad things to Justin Timberlake’s leg. We had more fun looking at pictures of us with the wax “portraits” (as the Mussauds folks like to call them), than we’ve had in many a year.

The evening made me think about the cult of personality, fame and what it is that makes people go nuts around famous people.  I, who am a publicist working with celebs day in and day out, am just as guilty of being awed by the in-person sighting of a beloved TV or music personality as anyone else.  I’ve even been known to act like a complete fool in their presence, believe it or not.

Why is it that people who perform in front of cameras or microphones become somehow god-like, transformed from ordinary mortals into super-beings in our eyes? Why do we stare when we see one of them in real life and become tongue-tied when trying to talk to them? Really, they’re just like us…only richer.

My local supermarket is Melson’s*, an upscale grocery store on the corner of Riverside & Laurel Canyon in Valley Village.  Many celebrities live in the surrounding hills or nearby gated communities.  I’m often pushing a basket along, when I turn a corner and suddenly find myself face-to-face with someone who looks more than a little familiar. I quickly have to go through the whole routine in my head (did I go to high school with you…did I sleep with you…are you somebody’s friend) before I finally realize that they’re actually famous.

My most recent celebrity encounter was with Mark Hamill. It took me quite a few minutes to place him, my childhood idol. The years, unfortunately, have not been entirely kind to Mr. Hamill and he now resembles Yoda more closely than his 26-year-old “Star Wars” self.  Seeing him pick out deli meat, looking almost unrecognizable, it made me wonder how celebrities can stand to forever see the younger, prettier version of themselves preserved in amber on the silver screen. Up there, nothing changes…down here, they get fat, they develop wrinkles, they get old. How do they reconcile the two realities? And how do they deal with fans’ expectations that their idols should never age or change as the decades march by?

Another recent sighting at Melson’s was Valerie Bertinelli, shopping with her son Wolfgang Van Halen.  She was dressed in an over-sized t-shirt and jeans, he in normal grumpy overweight teen attire.  I had to look a few times before I could confirm to myself it was actually her…she was sans makeup and looked like any other shopper.  I realized, as I tracked her progress around the market, that I was checking her out to see if she looked as good under the shleppy attire as she did in the Jenny Craig ads (couldn’t tell) and if she was putting any junk food in her basket.  Because I feel I’ve “known” her since she was 15, I almost felt a little protective of her.  I’m proud of her recent weight-loss success and didn’t want to see any bad food making its way back into her basket…that’s how close we are, me and Val.

Melson’s was also the scene of one of my most awkward celebrity encounters. About a year ago, NBC was running a fantastic series called “Journeyman.”  It starred a gorgeous gentleman by the name of Kevin McKidd who has since gone on to star on “Grey’s Anatomy.”  Because the series was all about time travel, my one major obsession in life, I LOVED the show, and by extension Mr. McKidd.  When I saw him checking out the dairy section, I heard the voice of god telling me to go tell him how much I loved the show.  I sidled up to Kevin as he opened egg cartons and said:

“Um, hi, uh, yeah, so, I love your show.”

“Oh yes?” he responded kindly in a lovely Scottish accent. “Well, thank you.”

I was thrown off by the accent.  He was American in the show. I was now confused.

“Uh, yeah.  You’re really great in it. Really.”

“Oh,” awkward pause, “thank you.”

“Sure,” longer awkward pause.  Couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I brilliantly threw out, “So, is NBC renewing you, do you know?”

“Hmm, not sure,” he responded.  “We’ll know soon.”

“Okay, thank you.  Really.  Love the show. Thanks.”

He, unfortunately, did not get renewed.  My conversational skills did, however, the minute I was out of his presence.

I’ve had so many celebrity mishaps, I could go on for hours.  For example, there’s the time I ran out of a meeting jumping up and down and screaming because I had just met Mel Gibson, not remembering the conference room walls were glass and everyone could see me, including Mel. Or the time I hung up on Todd Rundgren twice because I didn’t really believe it was him calling my boss.  Or even the time that Ben Stiller was in front of me in line at the Moffee Mean* and I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “hey, you were really good.” Had I finished the sentence and said “in Zoolander, which I just saw last night” he might not have stared at me in a strangely puzzled way and moved off as quickly as he did.

The weirdest thing is that several of my friends are married to celebrities.  Once I get to know these individuals, I realize they are just as human as any of us, if not more so.  They are temperamental, often narcissistic, insecure and shy – they have their foibles like anyone else.  Through their spouses, I hear about their bedroom antics, their bathroom habits, things they say to their children and how they treat waitresses. The longer I get to know them, the more I wonder why anyone would deify them.

But then I run into someone that I watch all the time, let’s just say Craig Ferguson for the sake of argument (because I love him), and I get all giddy because I notice him looking at my feet (which he really did).  Were he to actually speak to me, I might gurgle out something incomprehensible, like “your eyes are really blue and sparkly-like,” and then kick myself for years afterwards.  I guess that’s the magic of entertainment and the reason that Hollywood is going stronger than ever, despite this economy.  People always need heroes, whether they’re delivered through a big screen, a set of speakers or maybe even a wax figurine, and I guess I’m no different.

Now, I wonder if Craig shops at Melson’s…I may have to stake it out…

* names of friends and locations have cleverly been changed so as to protect the innocent…celebrities, not so much.

I am sitting on a plane to Chicago, flipping through a fashion magazine, when I come across a review for a new shampoo.  I must admit that I have never been confused with a fashionista, and I have long since stopped trying to follow the fashion world.  I was not cut out, or have a body made, to follow the latest trends.  So I pretty much reserve the act of flipping through fashion magazines to long flights.

Mucky* beauty editor Mean Modfrey-Mune* asked, “What would you pay for a shampoo that guaranteed you an “above-and-beyond” great hair day?”  I pondered this question for some time.  I hadn’t had a good hair day since 1991, so I’m thinking I’d pay a pretty penny for the promise of a hair day like that.

Ms. Modfrey-Mune said she “found a true hair miracle, but it ain’t cheap.” And she wasn’t kidding.  This stuff is $140.00 bucks.  That’s U.S., not Canadian.  Too rich for me, no matter how magical of a potion it may be.    Ms. Modfrey-Mune felt it was awfully pricey for herself as well.  However, I’m pretty sure being the beauty editor of a top shopping magazine, she got hers for free.

Flying over Nebraska I read on.  Ms. Modfrey-Mune went on to tell how others in her office tried the shampoo, all with amazing results.  It seemed that no matter what hair type a person had, this shampoo made your hair look like you just left a $700 dollar salon. (Up until this point I was unaware of $700 dollar salons).  “Whatever you wish for your hair, the shampoo grants the wish,” Ms. Modfrey-Mune told me.

Days later I am shopping on Michigan Avenue, when I happen upon an upscale apothecary.  With visions of a magic shampoo, one that will change my hair, maybe even my life, I ask if they carry Phillip B Russian Amber.  They had not heard of it.  I beeline over to Sophora.  One person had heard of the magical shampoo, but she thought it only a myth.

This shampoo had become a mighty white whale.  So elusive, that I now HAD to have it and all of the magic that it possessed.

I went online and looked it up.  It was only sold at Barneys.  That figured, only truly magical yet extremely expensive things are sold at Barneys.

The next day I am on a one and a half mile trek through the city to a Barneys.  I could take a cab, but I figure magical shampoo deserves a quest.  I need to suffer for its magic.  And I do.  I have a blister from the shoes I bought on Oak Street, and I think that I am getting shin splints.

I find the shampoo in the basement, at the far corner of the store.  The smartly dressed sales lady presents it to me, poised in her outstretched cupped hands.  The jar is glowing.

I am a little disappointed that it is made in Beverly Hills.  I had to come to Chicago to find something that is made where I live, and well honestly, I had expected it to be made somewhere mystical like Avalon.

“This stuff will change your life,” she tells me.  I am giddy.  I don’t even look at the total when I sign the slip.  I don’t care about the price anymore.

I am skipping back to my room, blisters and shin splints forgotten.  I am silly with anticipation at how having wonderful hair is going to change my life.  It will probably make me smarter.  I bet it will help me make friends and influence people.  I am sure I will look thinner.  What if I win the lottery because of this shampoo?????  Ms. Modfrey-June does call it a miracle after all.

There are only five ingredients in this miracle elixir.  My daughter Matie* and I are staring at it as it sits on a shelf in the bathroom.   We are a little afraid to open it.  I imagine a spray of sparkles erupting from it and a ray of light shooting around the room like something from a Marry Motter* movie.  Matie thinks that maybe we can reproduce it ourselves.  “I bet we can do it for only twenty-five bucks,” she says.

I scoff,  “there is no way we can ever get the exact formula right.  There is no way we possess the skills or the magical powers.”

The directions are simple.  “Take a small dollop.” I wonder what the difference is between a dollop and smear?  I lather it into hair, leave in three to five minutes, and rinse.  I notice that there is no “repeat.”  Something this powerful doesn’t need a repeat, I think to myself.

I let the bathroom fill with steam from the shower.  I light a candle.  It is lavender and fills the room with its pleasant scent.  I undress slowly, trying to squelch my exuberance.  I set the timer on my iPhone for four minutes.

It is exactly as Ms. Modfrey-Mune describes.  “(It) smells…spicily Russian-seeming, and the weirdest thing is that it looks, feels and acts like rubber.”

I do not blow dry.  I do not put in any additional hair products.  I do not rinse and repeat.

I find myself staring at myself in the mirror.  The shampoo did not make me smarter.  It has not helped with my interpersonal relationships.  I have not won the lottery.  I don’t look even one pound thinner.  It is not so magical after all.  But, my hair is lusciously thicker.  It is shiny and silky.  My hair has never looked this good.  I am finally going to have one damn good hair day.  What more could a girl ask for?