Most days, I think I look okay. So maybe my hair isn't salon styled perfect and my make-up hasn't been applied by Bobbi Brown herself, but I hardly think I look like a train wreck. It's just everyone in the beauty industry that thinks I do.
Recently, I decided to switch hair salons for a variety of reasons.
"What do you want?" the new guy asked me. "What's wrong with this?"
I launched into explicit detail on cut and color.
"No. I will tell you," he declared imperiously, cutting me off. "The color is all wrong; too dark here, too light there, the wrong shade. The cut is bad; too long here, too short there."
Okay, so then why did you ask me if you already knew the answer? Was it a trick question? If I answered wrong, would I get buzzed and lose my turn?
"We will fix everything. How much time do you have?" He pawed through my hair like those monkeys you see on National Geographic grooming each other.
Uh, how much time do I need? Should I have packed a lunch or an overnight bag? Maybe I should have called the Extreme Makeover staff and thrown myself on their mercy? How about the guys on that Restoration show. They have lots of tools and can fix even the most derelict antiques to look like new.
Long story short, I didn't like what he did, and ended up back at my old place several weeks later.
"What happened to you?" my old hair guy gasped when he saw me. "Who did this?" He managed to make it sound as though I were Dr. Frankenstein's latest attempt...and it wasn't anywhere near as pretty as his first creation.
"The color is all wrong; the cut is not right. I'll do what I can today, but it will take weeks before it is right."
So you think I'll survive? Gosh, I hope so because I still have so much to live for!
And if both of these guys think my hair is that bad, it's nothing compared to the guys at the mall who try to sell flat irons from those kiosks.
"Miss, miss," they gesture frantically, yelling over the din of the Saturday mall crowds. "Come here and let me fix your hair. I'll show you how good it could look."
Hmm. Okay. You've just insulted me in front of sixty thousand other shoppers, but I'm guessing that you think by calling me miss (which Tim will be more than happy to attest to the fact that the boat has long since sailed on that!) I'm supposed to be so flattered that I will vault over those women too ugly for you to even offer to help and throw myself on your mercy, kissing your feet while weeping tears of joy that I, and I alone, am The Chosen One.
Right. Oh, and by the way, you studied hair design...where? Vidal Sassoon? Paul Mitchell? You know what? My nine year old niece can work a flat iron. Doesn't mean I'm going to let her take a 125 degree weapon and aim it at my head. Thanks, but no thanks. I'll stay ugly.
The only people worse are the skincare and make-up people. Generally speaking, you have to put your head down and run through the department like there is a fire in the center of the mall and you are the only one with a bucket of water. If you make eye contact for even a fraction of a second, you are toast. And NEVER, under any circumstances stop, or they will be on you like a hungry lion on a gazelle.
"Oh dear," they cluck, examining you like a bug under a microscope. "Thank goodness you've come now. Another day or two longer and..." they shudder and trail off as if the consequences would be too horrible to even mention.
"Do you see how dry/oily/scaly/red/green/saggy/wrinkly/baggy and/or dull your skin is? Tsk, tsk. What have you been using?"
Like the "Do these pants make my butt look big? question, there is no right answer to this. You can tell them everything from drug store generic brands to whatever the current best seller among the rich and famous is and they will tell you why it doesn't work and you look like crap. (Basically, it's because they don't sell it)
Then, they will proceed to slather eighty-two different types of goop on your face and after each layer, hold up a mirror and chirp, "There. Don't you look better already? See how the lines and creases are disappearing? Your skin is getting tighter, taking on a youthful glow. The years are melting away. (Why Miss Elphaba, you're beautiful--Wicked reference, she is the green "wicked" witch).
Then, they lean in conspiratorially and boast, "I'm 82, but people think I'm 18. It's all because our products have something nobody else has. Shh. It's alpharetinolcaffinatedteatreehydroxy oil. Plus eye of newt and tongue of frog. And just a little bit of pixie dust.
Okay, so is that a magic mirror you look into? Cause the one you're currently shoving under my nose is not making me look like Heidi Klum. Just so you know.
After all the various concoctions, potions and lotions (and a good hour that you'll never get back has been sucked out of your life) you then move on to make-up, which of course, you have been doing all wrong.
"So what colors do you use?" They query as they pull out a tray with more colors than a super jumbo box of Crayolas.
"Uh, blue?"
"Aspen blue, Blue heather, Twilight blue, Eggplant blue, Neon blue or Teal blue?" They wait expectantly, as though I actually know the answer or can tell the difference between them.
"The blue I bought last year?" I hesitantly offer, wishing I'd said chartreuse. How many variations could there be on that?
"Last year? Last year?" they shriek, clutching their chest and staggering backwards. "You're five seasons behind! No wonder you look like the "before" photo."
With a flick of the wrist, they unroll a set of tools and utensils that would rival a top-notch operating theater and begin transforming you from the hideously outdated creature you were to a cross between a drag queen and Tammy Faye Baker.
"Here is a complete list of all the products I've used today," they tell me another mere hour later. "The first 192 are the must-haves so you don't scare small children or people with 20/20 vision. The other 56 are optional. More or less. Well, less. On second thought, they're not really optional...for you. And by the way, who does your hair?"
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