The Magic Has to Be There

I recently took a trip to Vegas with my mom and daughter to visit my sister—just the four of us, together in her city. It felt good to break routine and be fully immersed in something new. A little glam, a little grit, and a show on the Strip? Sign me up.

My mom had one request: David Copperfield. He wasn’t on my radar, but I was excited to go along for the ride. My sister was hyped. My daughter was lukewarm. I was mostly just happy to take in the experience.

The show was over, our souvenir drinks in hand, and my sister snapped this shot beneath the glowing marquee. My mom was glowing, my daughter was wide-eyed, and I was somewhere in between—still sorting through the spectacle. Sometimes the curtain falls, but the questions stay with you longer than the tricks.

We walked in with our oversized MGM Grand drinks (mine was a $35 gin and tonic in a souvenir cup—worth it), ready to be amazed. When the show began, a man appeared on stage. Hair grown out, dressed surprisingly casual, mumbling. I honestly thought he was the opening act, warming up the crowd before the magician made his entrance. But no—that was David Copperfield.

Now, to be clear: the magic was incredible. Mind-blowing, even. There were moments when I got completely lost in it, and those moments—those flickers of belief—were everything. When he truly stepped into his role as a showman, when the cameras zoomed in on his face during a trick—it was pure gold. For a second, you felt it. You believed.

Displayed outside the theater, David Copperfield’s Emmy stands tall—an emblem of legendary showmanship. Twenty-one wins. More than SNL. More than The Sopranos. The accolades are astonishing… but it’s the feeling behind the performance that lingers—or fades.

And yet… the story he was telling—about his father, about legacy—it lacked cohesion. It could have tugged at your heartstrings, but the delivery felt disconnected. There was too much going on, too many planted participants, and he seemed half-checked-out. Like he was doing a job he used to love, now mostly by muscle memory. I left feeling like I’d brushed up against greatness, but the magic dissipated quickly.

What’s wild is that my family loved it. They bought into the whole thing. My daughter especially—she was blown away. She said it was inspiring, and I loved that for her. Even my sister didn’t realize it was him at first, but once she caught on, she was all in. It just hit differently for me.

Three generations, one night on the Strip. My mom’s must-see show, my daughter’s unexpected awe, and me—somewhere in between, taking it all in beneath the glow of a legend’s name.

I found myself thinking about what it means to create something meaningful—not just once, but again and again and again. The longer you do it, the more intentional you have to become. Because when you lose connection to the work, the audience feels it. No matter how perfect the execution, the experience fades without heart.

As a hair designer, I don’t perform illusions—but transformation is still my craft. Hair is only the medium. What I really offer is presence, trust, attention, evolution. And that can’t happen on autopilot.

Whether you’re a magician on stage or an artist behind the chair, the truth is the same:

The magic always has to be there.