Tag Archives: beauty

Maybe I’m Born With It?

I don’t mean to brag, but I think I can confidently say that I have perfected the role of a perpetual “Before” picture when it comes to day-to-day beauty.

While I will occasionally splurge and get my eyebrows waxed, more often than not my attempts at beauty wind up with me at work with a forgotten Velcro roller in my hair, resentment over having to wear a real “big girl” bra (for social convention, not out of necessity) and a “pop” of color on my shirt from whatever I spilled during lunch.

But on fancy days I do wear a little foundation and a coat of mascara, which is what brings me to my point today. I had to buy new mascara. And because nothing is ever simple with me, it turned into quite an ordeal.

Want to find out more?

Head on over to the new and improved “In The Powder Room” to read about me lashing out. Because although they say, “Maybe she’s born with it,” it’s really more like, “Maybe it’s all just a crap shoot.”

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I Crap Glamour

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I actually cared how to coordinate clothes or correctly apply fancy makeup. Maybe I would have more friends or wind constantly blowing through my perfectly colored hair like it shows in all those commercials.

But then I remember that I’m the girl who went out in public with a Velcro roller stuck on her head, has blinded herself with liquid makeup applied directly to her eyeball and designates “good” T-shirts/jeans/yoga pants for when she needs to feel classy.

Basically, I just crap glamour.

It started early, as growing up I wasn’t what you would call a “girly girl” at all. My best friends were boys, but seeing as girls were around us as well, I carefully balanced stuffing my leotard with foam balls and coating my eyelids with glitter to lead “Get in Shape Girl” sessions in the yard with digging in the mud with a stick and baiting a hook for fishing.

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Although I did have a Marilyn moment or two early on.

I experimented with a variety of questionable “girly”-type things to try and fit in—a crimper, Electric Youth perfume, a Caboodle filled with plastic barrettes and scrunchies to match my colorful socks exposed under my stirrup pants and Jelly shoes—but once I got past the awkward years of 11 to 20, my interest started to fade even more.

Now if someone were to sweep me away and completely make me over, I probably wouldn’t object (as long as they didn’t abduct me near a meal time.)

However, I have no interest in learning how to do it myself—kind of like automotive repair or computer programming, but with more glitter and possibly more power tools.

I just don’t understand things like $25 mascara or dry shampoo. Isn’t spraying more crap in your hair instead of washing the other stuff out counterproductive? And I’m pretty sure if I went for a manicure, the tech would suggest amputation as the least laborious option.

Plus for me, it’s just not practical.

My real goal in life is not to always look fabulous, but rather to get through a meal without dropping food on my shirt or find the fabric softener sheet in my sleeve before someone else does. And I feel like high heels would clash with even my best yoga pants.

So for now, the paraffin hand treatment I get every time I spill the wax out of my Scentsy scented wax warmer and my vegetable steamer facial every night are good enough for me.

But if they make a Bump-It that promises to bump up my chest—not my hair—I  might just shell out the cash.

(Unmanicured fingers are crossed!)

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Hair to Dye For

Does your hair need a new hue?

Don’t spend upwards of $120 every six weeks to get tinfoil wrapped around your head while you eavesdrop on the conversations of rich people and sip glasses of sparkling water with cucumber!

No, I stopped doing that years ago when things like mortgages took priority over foils and fancy dye jobs. My solution? Think inside the box—as in, the box of at-home hair color.

Not only is it economical, but it’s also simple to do!

haircolor

  1. Wait for coupon so I can save $2 on the $7 box of hair color.
  2. Spend 20 minutes in the store trying to figure out what color to choose.
  3. Eliminate anything permanent or that takes longer than 10 minutes (fear of commitment and lack of patience.)
  4. Choose one that washes out in 28 washings. Figure that can be stretched out for what, 3 months or so?
  5. Come home and leave box of hair color in the closet a minimum of two weeks due to laziness.
  6. Realize it’s getting ridiculous and prepare to execute dye job.
  7. Place old towel over the sink and put on shirt I don’t have to lift over my head.
  8. Open box and grab plastic gloves, pull the top of the glove away from my arm and let it snap back into place like I’m about to perform open-heart surgery.
  9. Dump contents of bottle 1 into bottle 2 and shake before reading the instructions.
  10. Unleash a string of profanity at the confusion over reading the instructions.
  11. Flip instructions over to the English version.
  12. Adjust bathroom mirror so I can see all sides of my head.
  13. Notice every stray eyebrow hair I need to pluck out and that the cabinet needs to be cleaned.
  14. After spending 10 minutes plucking the eyebrow and wiping out the cabinet, start applying color to hair.
  15. OH MY GOD IS THAT A BLONDE HAIR OR A GRAY HAIR!
  16. Pluck suspect strand out of head.
  17. Get hair color on white sink when trying to throw suspect strand in the sink.
  18. Sigh. Take off glove and wipe down sink and, of course, the rest of the counter.
  19. Finish squirting on the dye, carefully take off gloves and throw them away.
  20. Unleash a string of profanity when dropping the glove in the sink.
  21. Remind myself that I’m why I can’t have nice things.
  22. Re-clean sink.
  23. Put on the shower cap and feel like a surgeon again.
  24. GAH! Note that a surgeon wouldn’t have a neck, ears and forehead covered in smudges of dark color.
  25. Grab wet paper towel and feverishly start scrubbing at the dye on my head.
  26. Realize I forgot to set the timer. Crap. How long have I been scrubbing my head?
  27. After a quick approximation, set timer.
  28. Wipe dye off the kitchen timer.
  29. Get distracted by something shiny or bright until the timer goes off.
  30. Wonder why I set the kitchen timer.
  31. Scratch head, take note of aforementioned shower cap and head back to shower.
  32. Gently rinse out hair color, turn around to grab the shampoo and…
  33. OH MY GOD THE WHITE SHOWER IS COVERED IN BLACK HAIR COLOR!
  34. Unleash a string of profanity when faced with the realization I’ll have to change the shower curtain liner again.
  35. Lather and rinse.
  36. Wipe off shower tile with my hand in effort to “spot clean” the thing.
  37. Try and remember whether or not I’ve already shampooed by hair.
  38. Rinse again as precautionary measure.
  39. Wrap towel around head and head upstairs to dry out my hair.
  40. Collapse on the bed in exhaustion.

It’s hard work being a diva.

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The War on Wedgies

While I am a grown woman, I’m not “girly-girly” at all, and the description of my wardrobe and beauty regime can be summed up with “comfort” and “if I have to.”

But when you think about it, the things that women do in the name of beauty are rather ridiculous. Do men let strange women attack their face with hot wax? Do they stuff their legs into nylons like a sausage is stuffed in a casing? Do they glue fake eyelashes on their eyelids and stick multiple hoops through their ears?

OK, some of them do, but most of them don’t and neither do I.

I understand wanting to look nice and whatnot, but women just complicate things. Men don’t complicate things. While some women worry if pants make their ass look big, I highly doubt that men worry if a pair of jeans makes their penis look small.

But there’s no greater proof than the comfort chasm between the sexes when it comes down to underwear.

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Not all underwear, of course, but the fancy crap.

I get that one is expected to own something a bit sexier than a six-pack of Hanes from Target and agree that everyone should have something small (or medium or large) they can wear that makes them feel good. Even if no one ever sees the contents of it in action, a little extra color or some leopard print design might be just what you need to get your proverbial panties out of a bunch some days.

But let’s be practical, people.

For the cost of one pair of those fancy underoos, you can purchase a dozen pair that you won’t have to try and discreetly pull out of your crotch by pretending to get something from the front of your jeans.

Don’t act like you haven’t done it.

For most men, (hopefully) clean is their favorite color of underwear and they would probably rather have you comfortable and happy instead of distracted by the thread creeping far up your ass.

So to summarize: What’s the point of wearing something uncomfortable that practically nobody else sees anyway? Okay, okay. In the interest of balance, I’ll play devil’s advocate.

Perhaps you are some sex maven that can do a triple back flip off your sex swing with perfect form, and wearing a $45 thong is necessary to complete your performance and dazzle the spontaneous suitors you entertain on a daily basis.

But for the majority of us who have retired the sex swing in favor of a Papasan chair, it just doesn’t make that much sense.

And I have to think that if by chance you are swept up in a spontaneous moment, your suitor most likely won’t care if you’re wearing a Victoria’s Secret four-color, invisible line lacy bikini bottom with magic unicorn dust or a Ziploc bag bedazzled with Puff Paint and scented magic markers.

Save the money and the stress of a wedgie-filled existence.

It’s truly what’s inside that counts.

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P.S. I’m nosy and have to think a couple of you are nosy, so I’m toying with doing an “Ask Abby Anything” post. If you have questions about anything—me, writing, picking up men in Home Depot—either email me or leave a comment on my Facebook page. If I actually have interest, I’ll use them in a future post that will probably embarrass me.

Lashing Out

I don’t mean to brag, but I think I can confidently say that I have perfected the role of a perpetual “Before” picture when it comes to day-to-day beauty.

While I will occasionally splurge and risk life, limb and sanity to get my eyebrows waxed, more often than not my attempts at beauty wind up with me at work with a forgotten Velcro roller in my hair, resentment over having to wear a real “big girl” bra (for social convention, not out of necessity) and chicken tracks under my eyes from sneezing while applying mascara.

I just have no interest, and we’re past the point of no return.

But I do wear a little foundation—handy to cover up bruises, hypothetically speaking—and a coat of mascara, which is what brings me to my point today. I had to buy new mascara.

maybelline

What. The. Hell. People.

I had a $2 coupon for Cover Girl, so I went to the store to find out how to be Easy, Breezy and Beautiful — which sounds a bit slutty, yet intriguing — and was bombarded with approximately 405 different options.

I could be a Lash Fanatic or engage in Lashperfection, Lashwrap, Lashblast Fusion, LashExact, Luxe, Mousse and an All-In-One professional option that I assume will also staple and collate any inner-office memos in a passive aggressive way.

I needed a coupon for liquor at that point — not something that promised Eye Brightening with an Elasta-Nylon formula.

So even though I didn’t have a coupon for Maybelline, I shifted my minimally mascara-ed gaze over to that section in a quest to answer the eternal question: “Maybe she’s born with it? Maybe it’s Maybelline?”

More like, “Maybe it’s a crap shoot?”

Here I was presented with 4,367 different options that specialized in curl, definition, length, long wearing, volume, washable, waterproof, Volum’Express, XXL curl, Lash Stiletto and Lash Discovery with promises that with a swipe of a (curved, flexible, stiff or extended) wand, I could have dramatically curled, extended, mega plush up to 85 or 300 percent visibly longer lashes amped up 3, 5, 7, 9, or 11 times the normal volume.

All without clumps.

THIS IS WHY OTHER COUNTRIES HATE US, PEOPLE!

My head of limp and lifeless hair was spinning.

While L’Oreal promised to “millionize” my lashes, that sounded like entirely too many. As it is, my meager eyelashes often end up in my eyes—way to do your job of keeping crap out of my eyes, eyelashes!—and having a million around would just complicate things. So even though the packaging was screaming, “Because you’re worth it!” I really didn’t think it was worth jabbing my fingers in my eyes to retrieve a million voluptuous lashes — or $9.

But that’s not all!

It also turns out that when mascara just isn’t enough—I know, how could it not be with all of these options?—one can also invest in eyelash extensions and prescription eyelash enhancers. In other words, Rogaine and Viagra for eyelashes.

I can only imagine the product development team at these companies had a three martini lunch when this particular idea was tossed out there on the table.

Let’s just file it under “things that don’t need to be things.”

Anyway, after weighing my options I defaulted to the same $5 mascara I’ve been buying for years—the basic Maybelline in the pink tube—answering the question that yes, those chicken tracks under my eyes are Maybelline.

Because, after all, I’m worth it.

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Velcro Rollers, Eyelash Ass

The other day I posted:

“Just in case anyone wants to live vicariously (and glamorously) through me, I’ve been at work an hour and just noticed I left a Velcro roller in my hair.”

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Confession—that’s not me.

On the bright side, I’m the first one in the office and by myself for at least an hour before anyone else comes in, so no one was witness to my beauty brilliance. On the dark side, I still felt the need to let everyone know what an ass I am.

But this isn’t the first time that I’ve done that, and it got me thinking about how I am a perpetual “Before” picture when it comes to day-to-day beauty.

If someone were to sweep me away and completely make me over, I wouldn’t object one perfectly separated eyelash. However, I have no interest in investing either the time or the money in learning how to do it myself—kind of like automotive repair or computer programming, but with more glitter and possibly more power tools.

So while I am (obsessively) clean, always smell (relatively) lovely, occasionally color my hair and get my eyebrows waxed, my general “beauty” routine consists of washing my hair, putting on a coat of foundation in the winter, mascara, a little eyeliner and chapstick.

That sounds simple enough, but there are even snags with those simple steps:

  • When I wash my hair, there have been times I’ve forgotten to rinse out the conditioner, as I was too distracted reading the back of the bottle in each of the foreign languages.
  • And while I start out with styling products and Velcro rollers in the morning, by the afternoon I’ve usually resigned myself to the fact that my hair would like to join my chest in remaining flat and lifeless. Bobby pins are inserted—in my hair, not my bra—and I move on.
  • I have directly applied foundation to my eyeball, resulting in a beige splotch and searing pain.
  • Using an eyelash curler is a daily thing, despite the fact that there have been times more times than I can count when I’ve pinched the skin near my eye with the damn thing and unleashed a string of profanity that scares my eyelashes straight again.
  • I have sneezed immediately after applying a coat of mascara and then forget that I sneezed immediately after applying a coat of mascara—more than once. It’s attractive.
  • We won’t even get into my clothes, but let’s just say that I do have my “good” T-shirts/jeans/yoga pants/tennis shoes when I need to be classy.

Hey, I go for comfort.

And it seems whenever I do try and make an effort, I wind up at work with a Velcro roller in my head, resentment over having to wear a real “big girl” bra (for social convention, not out of necessity) and chicken tracks under my eyes until I remember to look in the mirror.

Plus, my real goal in life is not to learn how to French manicure, but rather to get through a meal without dropping some morsel of food on my “good” T-shirt or finding the fabric softener sheet in my sleeve before someone else does.

But in an effort to make me feel better, a stunning friend of mine who actually works in the beauty industry shared her latest snafu. It seems she wore her fake (black) eyelashes to bed and woke up to find what she thought was a huge black spider on her leg, freaked out and started swatting at it with the ferocity of a home run hitter. 

In actuality, it was her fake eyelashes stuck to her ass.

That made me feel a little better, if only for the visual.

So here’s your chance to confess your beauty blunders—or those of a “friend”—in a safe and caring environment.

Was it toilet paper stuck to the shoe? A glob of food in your hair or teeth? Fake eyelashes stuck to your ass?

Remember we’re not laughing at you, we’re laughing with you.