A BAD HAIR DAY

An Interview with Clint Eastwood
Copyright © 2005, by Betty Dravis

In the sixties, I wrote a weekly newspaper column for The East San Jose Sun where I also specialized in human interest stories and profiles of prominent local citizens.

For a Halloween feature story, in the late sixties I profiled a woman named June Cheim who was the delight of trick-or-treaters in her rather exclusive neighborhood. Every year, this gracious woman transformed herself into a frightening witch, acting the part to perfection.

And June--headlined as "The Good Witch of the East Foothills"--brewed a fantastic witch's brew. Topped by roiling clouds of evil-looking, foul-smelling gray smoke, the mixture looked more lethal than Bette Midler's in The Witches of Eastwick. June's brew was apple cider, of course, and it was delicious. The children loved it, and the Cheim home was a favorite haunt on Halloween.

Shortly following publication of the story, I was at home doing laundry when June phoned to thank me for the story, commenting that her friends, neighbors, and family enjoyed it tremendously.

She went on to tell me that a popular movie star was visiting them for a few days and asked if I would like to interview him. She explained that she had gone to school with him and she and her husband, Leo, had maintained their friendship throughout the years.

The Cheims' friend was one of the world's top box-office draws, rapidly overtaking Charles Bronson. Wow! Interview that hunk! Ohmigod ... ohmigod! I thought, but I managed to stammer, "Y-yes, of course."

I--a low-paid, part-timer at a small weekly--was the only newsperson in San Jose getting a shot at the star. It was my chance to scoop the large daily paper. By no stretch of the i-m-a-g-i-n-a-t-i-o-n was I a career journalist; I was just starting out part-time, not even thinking of going full-time yet. Primarily, I was a mother, struggling to raise six children alone.

I was completely stunned at the thought of interviewing that man ... and a little frightened. In those days, I had no tape recorder and was concerned that I might write too slowly, botch the interview, and make a fool of myself. Could I do the job properly? Would I be professional enough?

The thrill of meeting such a famous, handsome hunk overcame my professional doubts, and I was hot to trot. After all, I told myself, he's only a man.

But then, being as vain as the next woman, personal doubts crept in. I began worrying about my appearance. I had always been a natural blonde, but as it faded, I'd started touching it up. Well, that day--of all days--my roots needed touching up and I needed a cut and a style.

In other words, it was a woman's worst nightmare ... a bad hair-day. A very bad hair-day.

Even more frustrating was that June had set the interview for five that afternoon, and since the star was leaving the next day, it was my only chance.

Time was short, so I called the Sun to schedule a photographer to meet me at the Cheim residence, but none was available. Damn!

Next I phoned my hairstylist only to find that she was booked solid. Double damn!

In desperation, I called a friend, Josie.

Yes, Josie had experience! Yes, Josie could do it! And yes, Josie could even baby-sit.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

I thought things were finally going to work out, but that thought was a little premature. Josie thought ash blonde Clairol worked the same as light blonde; you know, the longer you leave it on, the lighter it becomes? Well, ash blonde works the opposite. She let it develop too long, and voila ... brown hair! And to make matters worse, she plastered flirtatious little Spanish sideburns to my cheeks, fashioned a curly topknot and a lopsided cut.

"Definitely not me," I moaned, since I considered myself more the girl-next-door, cheerleader type. Could Josie be jealous of my lucky break? I asked myself. Then: Na-ahh ... she's not that mean-spirited.

After staring ice-picks at Josie for ruining my looks, I kissed the kiddies good-bye, swallowed my pride, and toodled on to the big interview.

My self-confidence had gone down Josie's drain right along with my hair, but at least I liked my outfit. It was a yellow-and-white polka-dotted number with a slightly-flared skirt. The dress--and white, high-heeled pumps--set off my tan; not much consolation, but it helped a little.

And, as if that weren't enough, with no cameraman in tow, I felt like a complete amateur. Oh-h, well, one lucky break a day is all one can hope for, I told myself as I pulled into the Cheims' circular driveway and bravely climbed out of my clunky old Mercury.

From somewhere deep within I summoned my usual bravado, and knocked.

Several rapid heartbeats later, the door opened and there he stood--Clint Eastwood! The star gazed at me with his gorgeous bed-room eyes, flashed a devastating smile, took my trembling arm, and escorted me into the den for the interview ... which went great.

Eastwood was so charming and down-to-earth, he put me at ease immediately. And afterward--when he graciously invited me along for dinner at The Fog Horn--he made a fan for life. Regretfully, I declined because Josie could only baby-sit till nine.

As I was leaving, June took several photographs of me with Eastwood, and although I have never liked my hairdo, to this day I adore the way that sexy, all-male hunk gazed down at me. And, God, the way he cupped my neck with those long, strong fingers still gives me goosebumps.

My best friend was the first to tease me about the picture. "Wow, Clint's looking at you like he's in love with you."

"Yeah, he's a great actor, isn't he?" I smugly replied, but I was thinking, I should be so lucky! Then I modestly added, "I was just in the right place at the right time."

Now, it's thirty-plus years later, and Eastwood's a mega-star, mega-producer ... mega-everything. And another young journalist--Dina Ruiz, TV co-anchor of Action News Eight (Salinas/Monterey/Santa Cruz)--interviewed him a few years ago ... and he ended up marrying her. (Small world, but Dina's an acquaintance of my youngest daughter.)

That's one journalist who was really in the right place at the right time. It must have been a great hair-day for her. But with that magnificent mane of thick, dark hair, how could she miss?

 

 

 

 

INTERVIEW WITH A STAR

An Interview with Jane Russell
Copyright © 2005, by Betty Dravis

One day in the early seventies I was sitting at my editorial desk at The Gilroy News Herald when the publisher burst into my office, grinning as though he had just won a Pulitzer. "Lucky you!" he said, "Guess who you get to interview tomorrow."

"Clint Eastwood? ... Tom Selleck?" I asked hopefully.

"Not exactly! Someone more my type. That give you a clue?"

Uh-oh, Gordon's got that Playboy centerfold look, I thought, but I said, "Must be Miss July, for you to get so steamed up. Now give. ... Who is it?"

"Jane Russell--in the flesh."

"Jane Russell ... the movie star? When and where?"

"San Francisco ... Trader Vic's. Ten AM sharp! Can you make it?"

I assured him I'd be there on time, but was delayed by a chemical spill on Highway 101. I couldn't believe my bad luck, but continued bravely West, hoping for the best. I thought I'd been assigned a personal interview with Miss Russell, so was worried about the repercussions of being late.

Like a movie star always gets her man, an editor always gets her story. But would I get mine this time? Or would I be too late?

When I arrived at Trader Vic's--an hour late--I was relieved to learn it was a round-table interview with representatives of both major dailies and small weeklies present, so nobody even noticed my absence.

Feeling highly unprofessional, I glanced sheepishly around, then took a seat, placed a tape recorder alongside a notepad on the table, and waited for a fellow-journalist to finish speaking so I could ask a few questions. But the minute he finished, the actress's agent ended the session.

"Damn!" I muttered under my breath as I scooped up the tools of my trade, lowered my head, and rushed out the nearest exit. I passed a shiny, black Cadillac limo I assumed was Miss Russell's transportation, and was standing beside my little white Vega when someone called my name.

I turned to see Miss Russell's agent scurrying after me. "Betty Dravis ... the Gilroy paper?"

"Ye-es," I stammered, reaching into my pocket for a business card.

"Well, Jane didn't want you to be scooped, so is giving you an exclusive," he whispered.

"Give the others time to leave, then meet us back in the conference room."

"Sounds wonderful. Press deadline's tomorrow, and my publisher will be thrilled."

I had recovered and was back in business.

The interview went smoothly, and afterwards a photographer took several photographs of me with the famous star. My publisher was so pleased with the story, he ran one of the photos, too, and after we put the paper to bed, he treated me to dinner.

Thanks to the generosity of the fabulous Jane Russell, I was a minor celebrity in Gilroy for a few days, and instead of eating crow that day, I ate lobster.

 

 

THE SWEET LITTLE OLD LADY

Copyright © 2005, by Betty Dravis