Tag Archives: hair

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.


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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Where Do I Send the Check?

Being a single woman who supports herself and an increasingly needy feline, I’m kind of picky on how I spend my increasingly decreasing money.

I prioritize—general bills, quality food that I want and enjoy and catnip so the hairball will leave me alone while I stare at a blank page on the screen. I don’t buy fancy clothes or makeup, I rarely eat out or party and obviously I don’t have cash to spend on a fancy blog design—or any at all.

Wow. That would be the worst singles ad ever.

With that out of the way, there are some things I will never hesitate to pay someone else to do. These are things I could probably do myself to some extent if I was willing to a) learn and b) pay for it by losing what sanity I might have left.

I can’t afford to lose any more sanity, so instead I just lose a few bucks.

My Taxes

This time of year everyone is buzzing about trying to find their 1099 or WD40 forms or what have you. I am a creative person. I am not a numbers person. All I know about taxes is that the small woodland creatures I keep fed in my back yard cannot count as deductions and that people dressed like Uncle Sam/Lady Liberty holding “Fast Tax Services” signs dominate busy street corners.

Considering the penalty for making a mistake on your taxes isn’t as simple as crossing something out and writing “Oops!” like I do in my checkbook, I’ll gladly pay a trusted professional—not one dressed in a costume—to figure all these things out.

Anything Automotive

Aside from putting gas in my Blazer and scheduling oil changes, I’m clueless when it comes to automotive repair. As a female it pains me to say that because it’s such a stereotype, but it’s true. If there’s a problem that can’t be solved by turning up the radio so I don’t hear the dysfunctional sound it’s making, I’m calling in an expert.

I can’t be trusted to not accidentally triple-knot my shoelaces, so this includes changing a tire.

Cut My Hair

I’ve accepted the fact that my hair’s “awkward phase” has lasted about seven years. Because of that, I’m not above coloring my hair from a box.

But ever since an unfortunate incident when I was six and cut my own hair (and that of our dog,) put it in envelopes and hid it under the couch, I have not gone near my hair with scissors. Considering my hair is lame anyway, it’s worth it to me to pay a lovely woman a few bucks to trim up what’s left and blame her for how it will look.

Anything with My Computer

I have basic computer knowledge in that I can overshare on Facebook, send out email writing pitches that I never hear back from and find pictures of sloths wearing makeup. I cannot do HTML or self-host my blog, and when I receive an error message or my computer freaks out in some way, I freak out in every way.

A phone call is made. A check is written.

Make Sushi

While I’m all about making my own food 99 percent of the time, I don’t understand people who make sushi at home. Okay. I get that it can be fun to have a “sushi rolling party” or whatever, but when I want veggie sushi I don’t want to spend three hours trying to get rice and perfectly sliced veggies to stick to a sushi mat before rolling it up, getting distracted and knocking the roll off the counter.

It will probably cost me three times more in supplies and 100 times more in frustration to attempt this on my own. Plus, when I’m hungry I get cranky, meaning there’s a good chance sharp chopsticks should be nowhere in the vicinity.

However, that tantrum might be worth paying to see.

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Aside from major medical procedures and house construction, what are the things you never hesitate to pay someone to do?

Big Hairy Deal

If I had to classify my relationship with my hair, I would say “it’s complicated.”

I’ve gone from disinterested (childhood) to horribly dysfunctional (middle school) to high-maintenance (college) back to ambivalent tinged with annoyance and a strong desire to try and bring back the stylish babushka of my grandma’s youth (now and forever going forward.)

But it turns out I have a long history of hair animosity.

I’m told I didn’t have hair until I was about three years old and was often affectionately referred to as a cue ball with kielbasa legs. While all the other babies were wearing little butterfly clips in their hair, I had a bandana stylishly tied around my noggin.


One vote for the babushka.

When I did finally get hair, I still wasn’t that fond of it. One afternoon when my grandpa was “watching” me, I took the scissors and cut off my ponytail, along with several patches of fur from our dog Grover. Ever the organizer, I carefully placed the hair into envelopes and then proceeded to deliver them to my mom upon her return.

As you can imagine, she was thrilled.


I resorted to more headwear.

My Barbie dolls and any other toy unfortunate enough to have anything resembling hair suffered a similar fate, albeit without the advantage of being able to grow their hair back. This left several scalped carcasses to be used as the perfect plastic projectile for when I was feeling ignored.

But there was a brief period of time in my early 20s  in which my hair was my “thing.”

I went to an overpriced salon and spent $120 every six weeks to get tinfoil wrapped around my head and eavesdrop on the conversations of rich people while I sipped my glass of sparkling water with cucumber.

I’ve done everything from platinum blonde to a dark purple shade called “Orchid.” Now when asked what my natural hair color is, I swear the “Jeopardy” theme song plays in the background.

I stopped going to that salon almost seven years ago when things like mortgages took priority over foils and fancy trims. My natural brown hair is simply there, annoyingly so, mocking me with it’s thinness and a wonky cowlick that prevents me from that trendy side-swipe bang look that would cover my large forehead.

But as long as I don’t look in the mirror, my hair and I get along fine now.

You learn to pick your battles and I waved the white flag years ago—and now might just use it as a babushka.


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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.”


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.