Back before I was a drunk in Las Vegas, I was an alcoholic in New York City and among the many places I hung out at was the first Beauty Bar. It opened a decade ago in an astonishingly preserved '60s beauty salon, a place of dark corners, vinyl barber chairs and strong cocktails mixed by bartenders who were hustling record deals with one hand and borrowing my drag-queen buddy's astrology mags with the other.
Outposts in Hollywood and San Francisco followed, and the newest franchise is the first of a cluster of non-casino bars opening Downtown. Just beyond where the neon ends, the Beauty Bar's glamorous retro façade and velvet rope stand out amidst the check-cashing joints, taco stands and vacant storefronts of Fremont Street.
While it lacks the original's authenticity, Beauty Bar Las Vegas is a reasonable facsimile of the salon where Grandma used to get her blue rinse: wall-to-wall mirrors; cheesy gold-and-white, French provincial furniture; and rows of chairs with those old-fashioned helmet hair-dryers attached. It's got a glitter-dusted and gilded paint job, as well as crystal ashtrays you can imagine your Uncle Mel's second wife hurling at an incompetent stylist during one of her diet pill-induced shit-fits.
The cocktails have names such as the Platinum Blonde and the Prell, and yes, there actually is a woman who will paint your nails. Still, the music is usually just this side of too loud and ranges from rockabilly/garage to punk/indie to Motown/Motorhead, depending on whether you come Tuesday, Thursday or Friday. There are DJs seven days a week, a gay night, the occasional fashion show and sometimes they stuff a rock 'n' roll band into the corner where the polishing happens, Marshall Stack amps pushed against the manicure table.
Special events are often presided over by Miss Korby Roxtar, who bounces from behind the bar to in front of the door like The Love Boat's cruise director Julie, as played by Joan Jett. Paul Devitt, the proprietor, strolls about looking dapper and only slightly frantic. The cocktail waitresses tend toward sleeve tattoos and Joan Crawford hairdos, and the bar-backs sport oversized belt buckles and mini-Mohawks.
The clientele seem as through they could've been imported from New York, Los Angeles or San Francisco: late-20s hipster types doing as much mingling as drinking, decked out in thrift-store jackets, ironic T-shirts and cool boots. On a recent visit, two of my companions watched the crowd for a few minutes over the ice melting in their Scotch. During a momentary lull in the MC5-esque din of the Black Jetts, one turned to the other: "Where did all these people come from?"
"I dunno. I think I've seen a few of them at the Double Down, but ...."
"Have they just been hiding in basements this whole time?"
"Yes! Sitting there in the dark, going, ‘One day, they will open a place worthy of my haircut.' And now they have this bar."
Beauty Bar's stylish aesthetic (both place and people) sets it apart from Fremont Street's other drinking establishments: the weird county-western-karaoke-sports-bar hybrid of the Bunkhouse, the Bukowskian dive that is Atomic Liquors, those faintly vomit-scented margarita-by-the-yard joints. But it won't stand alone for long. The ersatz biker bar Hogs & Heifers (another NYC import) will be joining it July 6 with a 10 p.m. decorating party (bring your bras and license plates), with the drag club Celebrity (from gay capital—cough—Cleveland) to follow, and then the DJ-friendly Downtown Cocktail Lounge. Will these developments change the "unique" ambience of Fremont Street? Who knows? Just be careful where you step in those new suede Pumas.
Lissa Townsend Rodgers learned to make a martini at age 6. E-mail her at
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