In the four minutes I spend waiting on the sidewalk outside Christina Aguilera’s Beverly Hills mansion, I get a sense of why being an international superstar might suck. No fewer than seven celebrity star tour vehicles pass by the well-polished gates. “Is this Christina Aguilera’s house?” someone shouts. Two parties on foot want to know the same thing. “I don’t know,” I say.

Eventually, a young man in cargo shorts ushers me into the cool, high-ceilinged foyer. An enormous red crystal chandelier hovers, oddly reminiscent of the spaceship in Independence Day. Underfoot, a lush patterned rug proclaims “CA & JB.” Since Aguilera and music executive Jordan Bratman split in 2011, it is the decor equivalent of a tattoo, and I wonder if it could somehow be rewoven to read, I don’t know, “Cats Get the Job Done!” à la Johnny Depp’s “Wino Forever.”

I’m examining a framed photo of her four-year-old son, Max, atop a black lacquer table—one where his dimpled smile is particularly adorable—when Aguilera appears. As a judge/coach on The Voice she’s routinely red-lipped, coiffed and either very fashionable (peplum jacket, fishnets) or mega-fashionable (studded hot pants). Here, she’s barefaced, in black leggings and a red sweatshirt, her platinum hair apparently towel-dried. She looks cute, like a college junior about to curl up with her statistics book. “Hi, I’m Christina,” she says. The “Hi, I’m … ” part of the greeting, like her handshake, is light and sweet, very ex-Mouseketeer. But the “Christina” part has a sultriness to it that seems less an overt attempt to be sexy than it is just the natural grain of her voice. I abandon the intelligent professional thing I was going to say in favor of crying out: “Me and a bunch of friends dressed up and went to see you and Cher in Burlesque on opening night at a mall in rural Pennsylvania.”

“That’s cute,” she says. “Awww.” She will issue this response every time I compliment her. We move into another emphatically red room—red rug, red patterned wallpaper, tan velvet couch with red tassels—with a movie screen at one end and a grand piano and bar at the other. I’m directed to a silk brocade chair in easy reach of a glass jar of lollipops. “And the song “Fighter” is incredibly important to me,” I say. “I listen to it when—well … I feel bad about myself and I want to persevere instead of just, uh, die.”

“Awww. That’s why I wrote ‘Fighter,’ ” she says. “I have that need in me to help people. I am all about the underdog.” And then Aguilera sits in the corner of the velvet couch farthest from me, and I’m tempted to say, “Hey, I’m an underdog! Why don’t you want to sit near the underdog?” Then I remember the hordes of people outside, all wanting a piece of her, and resolve not to take it personally. Read the rest of this entry »