Tag Archives: beauty

Mill-xers

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I was still reeling from my discovery that fresh-faced young boys and girls were indebted to Allergan Pharmaceutical Co. (i.e. Botox makers).  Well, writhing and frothing at the mouth is a truer description of my sentiments.  Were twentysomethings really taking hours off from work to create these facades?  Didn’t they have low-man-of-the-totem-pole jobs to prove themselves at?  Happy hour free chips and salsa to overindulge in?  Cleaning duties to haggle with roommates about?

I wiped off my foamy mouth, and soothed myself with a jar of premium cocktail nuts, honoring the many years I couldn’t afford them.

And there was my beef.  My twenties are filled with memories of things I couldn’t do, or had to do in an awkward, sweaty, tear-stained way.  Like moving to Manhattan, and rotating through friends’ cramped apartments while searching for my own place.  My best friend and I shared a towel for fear of putting our hosts out.   Angry real estate agents bore down on us daily, and we resorted to taking antacids.  We bought two bagels each morning, one of them with cream cheese; we then took the cream cheese overflow and spread it on the other bagel, saving ourselves a total of thirty cents.

And when we broke our hosts’ futon, we were prepared to give up the bagels themselves to cover the repair.  We cried silently into germy pay phones, assuring our parents that all was well and their stern warnings about moving to New York were for naught.  Martyrdom and Generation X go well together.

I bit forcefully into a macadamia.  I was never like today’s kids.  My lunchtime in those days was usually four p.m., when the meeting leftovers would roll out of my office conference room.  I took the bus to IKEA, not mom’s minivan to CB2.  I would have gladly traded in my scratchy Chinatown market t-shirt for a $99 cashmere cotton blend with a “Tofu is cool” message.

I used to walk to Bloomingdale’s to save money.  Drats.  Busted.  At Bloomingdale’s. Often.  Beauty department.  Saks too.  Clinique lipstick section.  Some Clarins spa visits.  Appearance mattered, in order to get chosen from the line by the bouncer for entry into Friday night’s club of choice.  So I could then hand over my weekly food budget as a cover charge.  And buy a five-dollar bottle of water.  And then take a taxi home, crosstown AND uptown.  To do it all again the next night.

No, I was never like these kids.  Except when I was.

Fountainhead of Youth

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The other day, I was sitting at a bar and chatting with a friend, when the subject turned to cosmetic procedures. I realized I had had a similar conversation with another friend a few weeks before. And another with a third friend a couple of months before that. The common theme in the discussions? Cosmetic enhancements: everyone does them. And despite this repetitive conclusion, I sat shell-shocked on my bar stool.

I’m not entirely sure why, since my current YouTube obsession is an anti-cellulite massage video (please reference the “Step by Step” post). My Friday night guilty pleasure consists of smearing Vaseline all over my face (right after using it on the wood furniture). I also just fulfilled a dream of shopping for snail essence masks at the Seoul airport. I get our obsession with physical appearance.

Yet, I was dumbstruck by the fact that regular people, walking my streets, drinking Trader Joe’s wine and buying Gap turtlenecks were elevating the beauty game to a whole new level. We’re not talking about reality stars or ex-heads of state.   We are talking about the chick with the baseball cap and fleece vest, halfway through her pint of Miller Lite, at the corner Irish dive bar.

And then there’s that: a quest for youth isn’t reserved for those over sixty, or even thirty.   It’s now actually for the youth. Ah, what bright eyes she has, you wax nostalgically over a young lass walking by. Go ahead and sing your praises, but direct them to the professional aesthetician that skillfully glues custom-sized fake lashes onto tiny human eyelashes. Repeat monthly.

Debating Botox and wondering about that whole “losing your expressiveness” chatter? Don’t – for all your friends, strangers, and children’s babysitters have already injected themselves. No one else is cogitating about it, and yes, you can still tell when they are mad at you.

Since my adolescence, I have occasionally felt guilty about my frivolous interest in clear skin, and shiny hair that smelled like roses. But now I suddenly feel like an out-of-date Victorian forced into modern times. I can often relate to the Victorians, but that’s an entirely different subject.

Should I have pumped collagen into my jaw line at nineteen, instead of buying one ugly pair of Doc Martens after another? Why oh why did I ever frown at the blackboard during the mystery that was Microeconomics? I should have feigned comprehension, and then immediately asked a pre-med student to transplant ankle fat onto my forehead. And peptides – why am I still not sure what they are, when all the ten year-olds on my block are massaging them into their necks?

I know rationally it’s not a race to keep up; but if it were, the reality is that I am barely at the starting point. I will never meet the requirements for ultimate cosmetic maintenance. It might be because my recent conversation with a Buddhist monk excited me as much as finding French brands at the Walgreens’ beauty counter. It could also be because I believe dog slobber is a highly effective antioxidant.  Clinical results to come.

Step by step

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Me: “Do you want to pick up the takeout now, or shall we do it in an hour?”

My mother: “Why do you have zits on your face?”

And that, my friends, is how you silence an adult.

I was as mortified as any fourteen year-old.  I could have delivered a million excuses: changing seasons; PMS or early menopause; E. coli-infested chocolate; the dog licked my face.  But silence seemed a more dignified response.

I suspected I would rush home after dinner and desperately pound the keyboard Googling “good skin gone bad.”  But in my newfound quest to embrace acceptance and its colleagues (non-judgment, self-love, positive thoughts, et al.), I let it go.  Instead of focusing on selfish, superficial worries that would hopefully vanish in a few weeks, I would concentrate on solving bigger problems – afflictions that had plagued generations of women and many men, at a global level without discrimination. Afflictions like cellulite.

I did my research, and a few days later, a French company’s brainchild arrived at my door.  When in doubt, always go French.  There is zero probability they will prescribe heavy exercise or fat-free living.  I unraveled the instructions with excitement.  One may think there isn’t much to learn about applying creams.  But which finger should you use?  Is it a circular motion, or more oval?  Tapping or light massage?  Clock-wise?  I don’t like to chance it.

The instructions came in six language versions, two of them Asian ones.  This was an excellent sign.  If the ladies of Tokyo and Beijing were buying this up, it had to deliver.

There were eight illustrations of a lovely naked woman with her hair in a perfect ballerina bun.  First, sit on the floor, back straight up against a wall, with legs outstretched – easily done.  And then I stopped understanding. For in the next picture, the young woman appeared to be going into labor, as she sat with knees bent, pushing apart her thighs with her hands.  And there were arrows shooting up the sides of her legs.  And, wait, was she now lying on the floor shoving her pelvis up into the air?  Rosemary’s cellulite baby.

The written portion offered little help, with its multi-step approach (phase 2, part 1, zone 3), and incremental stretches for those “accustomed to exercise.”  I tried to muddle through the other language versions, but all were as clear as mud. I felt dejected as I set the instructions down.  I would never complete the “natural draining process,” or have “refined buttocks.”

Alone and scared, I tried to find some glimmer of hope.  I sat on the bed and opened up a blank page on my laptop; I typed the number 1.  I find lists to be very comforting.  And slowly the letters flowed from my fingers onto the screen: 1. Fine greasy hair 2. Callouses and/or corns 3. Ashy knees.

There were many more global maladies out there for me to solve.

Deepak Chopra and Me

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Over the past few weeks I had some time off from my routine due to a small medical procedure.  The result was ample time for contemplation, and a more philosophical view of the world.  It started when a dear friend gave me critical advice for the hospital stay: do not neglect your looks.  A simple yet powerful statement.

So being a classic follower, I quickly made plans for hair styling, nails, and waxing (admittedly necessary) before my medical appointment.  I also added to my hospital bag of essentials a cheery mauve lip gloss, and my cream eyeliner that definitely opened up my eyes.  Take action, don’t sit on the sidelines.

As the big day approached, my caring partner offered me the chance for a weekend getaway.  But it would conflict with my aesthetic appointments.  Pretty brazen of him.  Quality time with the most important person in my life vs. the right shade of honey highlights, and a slight trim of the dead ends?  Was I a Clooney or a Kardashian?  Would I ever admit any link with the latter?  So I embraced the trip to New York, and tried not to stare too wistfully at the nail salons at every corner.  When faced with dilemmas, the Clooney vs. Kardashian test can bring clarity and vision.

Soon enough, the countdown to hospital began.  With only a few hours left, I headed with determination into my bathroom.  I didn’t see any neck trauma-inducing basins with scalding water shooting into my ears; or even a blow dryer.  I eyed my tools: orange blossom shampoo and a barely there blob of conditioner – at least it was deep conditioning.  So, wash, rinse, coat, rinse, rub head with towel, and call it a night.  Be determined, but flexible along the journey.

That night, I dreamt of walking through the city streets at dusk, surrounded by the crisp fall air.  My friend suggests we go for an energetic fitness walk.  I decline firmly, and repackage the outing into a foray to our corner bar.  All I had to do was choose words from the heart that were universal: “I am having a good hair day.”  The kind of day you do not waste on trees and buildings, but impart instead on as many humans as possible.  For you never know when the next one may arrive.  Life is short.

So, when all was said and done at the hospital, I woke up in my room groggy and in pain.  Two nurses entered to help me shuffle across the floor to the bathroom.  One of them laid out a hulking adult diaper-underwear ensemble.  The neck of my gown had a trail of drool on it, leading back to my very own mouth.  A mouth that had zero interest in lip gloss, no matter how cheery it was.  But gee, my hair smelled terrific!  And more often than not, that is good enough.