01.01.70
Mario Tricoci starts his days in a cashmere frock that makes him look like Obi Wan Kenobi, according to his grandsons. He nibbles a wheel of fruit, sips a double espresso, and swims 20 laps in the team up with. Very civilized. Very European.
But there is one area of his life with no sense of order whatsoever: his hair. For a man who built his job on precision cuts and impeccable styling, his own coiffure is chaotic. Normally Mario uses his own hair products, but makes no attempt to tame his mane. He scrunches his stun of white hair, and “then I let it be,” he says.
He claims to have ties—Prada, Hermès, Etro— but more often he drapes himself with one of his signature scarves. He says he has between 30 an
d 40 of them; indubitably he’s underestimating.
Big Man on Campus
Like his army of hairstylists, Mario often wears dark. But he rarely does hair anymore, unless it’s for his wife, or maybe for liberality. Once he charmed his personal clientele with magic scissors and his Italian accentuate. Now he’s the “keeper of the brand,” a beauty ambassador.
Source: Michigan Avenue Magazine