Girly Girl

I need a beauty intervention. Don’t bother calling an ambush makeover show; I guarantee I’ll be off the wagon inside of a week. Some people have tried getting involved, and I appreciate it, I really do. I’ve been gifted with spa certificates, beauty products and sweet smelling lotions. I enjoy them when I eventually use them. They’re lovely, really. But if you are looking to buy my love, buy me shoes, a purse, or a margarita.

I am impatient. I don’t want to wait 12 weeks to see a 46% decrease in wrinkle definition. I want them gone NOW! If a twice weekly application of a mere drop is instructed, I will use a palm full 3 times a day. I am still waiting for the Sham-Wow guy to come out with a home facial sandblasting kit. I need RESULTS!

Each morning when I drop off my kids at school, I see moms there who look amazing. I’m talking high heel leather boots pencil skirts long hair worn down stunning. These are mothers of five year old little boys, just like me. I can’t imagine having the time to be getting any of that beauty routine accomplished short of tethering my son to the clothesline, wrapped chest down in bubble wrap while wearing a helmet and a lifejacket. I’m sorry, but if I don’t have drool or instant oatmeal on my shirt and at least the front section of my hair is brushed then I am looking good. Who looks fabulous at 8:00 in the morning? It’s not NORMAL.  I’m the girl who loves a Canadian winter for the sole reason that a long parka hides the fact that you are still in your pajamas. And that they are too small. And covered in instant oatmeal.

I shower daily, my nails are clean, I appreciate a groomed eyebrow, and I floss 2x a day. As far as I am concerned, anything else is gravy. I lack the basic female gene responsible for scheduling weekly pedicures and eyeliner tattooing. I “shine up” real nice, and can hold my own if given the time and inclination. But most days, I JUST DON”T CARE.

My sister got the pretty hair. Really, that’s what it amounts to, doesn’t it? I have had my own successes; people tell me they think my school efforts are noble, my kids are well behaved and happy, I can string a coherent sentence together and make a mean guacamole, but SHE GOT THE HAIR. It’s long, thick, blond, wavy and beautiful. It looks good up; it looks good down. In a bun, in a band, in a barrette, full of sand. Hair is important. It’s a woman’s “crowning glory,” Job was lost without it, men would donate their left testicle keep it, people write Broadway musicals about it. All I can say is thank God for butterfly clips. I fully admit that I shed more than one tear the day the scrunchie died.

I can trace my hair care woes to the day when I was 10 and my step-mother threw me a curling iron and told me to not come out of my room, “until I had done something with my hair.” She may as well have given me a waffle iron or floor waxer, because I had no idea what I was doing with the thing. I emerged an hour later, my forehead looking like I had rested 4 burning cigarettes on it, seeking “hair approval.” I must have passed, because I don’t recall what happened next, although psychologists may say that is a self preservation mechanism.

I also hate shaving. I do it, but I hate it. I live at the intersection of granola and mainstream, but can’t quite make myself cross the street to “no shaving” territory. I tried waxing as an alternative at a friend’s “helpful” suggestion; they even bought me a special “Wax Virgin” starter kit. We’re not friends anymore.

You know when on a movie or television show they play someone’s scream echoing loudly through the Grand Canyon? That’s almost as loud as I screamed when I first attempted to rip hair from my body using what amounts to little more than melted crayons and wax paper. I’m pretty sure hair follicles are not supposed to bleed, so I’m thinking I didn’t do it correctly. The end result was not pleasant, and suffice to say what I left in the bathroom garbage can closely resembled what it would look like if you wiped a dead raccoon off the road with a wet paper towel.