Tag Archives: hair

There Goes the Villa

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Monday morning traffic isn’t so bad if you leave at the right time.  Even better if you have a reverse commute from the city to the suburbs.  I like to start the ride with some Deepak Chopra wisdom, before switching quickly to the Erasure station on Pandora. Because in pursuing your own pure joy, you trigger a chain of events that will eventually create happiness for the whole world – I think the Dalai Lama said that.  Or maybe my friend after too much wine.  Anyway, what says joy better than a reverbing synthesizer?

On that particular day I even have time to sit at the red light and pull down the mirror to check my hair.  Gee, my hair looks terrific!  And I hadn’t even noticed.  I got my hair done two days ago.  I am suddenly sick to my stomach at the realization that I have wasted a solid forty-eight hours of good hair time.  All because ninety percent of my attention has been sucked up by a kid.  That leaves ten percent for everything else, including husband, pudgy cat and the redhead basset.

Yes, I now have a kid.  But I am not going to be writing about parenting.  Or the joys of children.  Or the maternal instinct swooping in to save the day.  First and foremost, this is a blog about fretting.  I hope I’ll still have the wherewithal to do it gracefully, but one never knows how these things turn out.

There are plastic toys in my living room.  Every morning my dining table seems to have a light film of last night’s dinner on it.  I am holding slimy wet rags all day long.  Humans I have just met ask me if I love mothering.  I forget things constantly, except my grudges.

So there will clearly be plenty to challenge my anxiety in new and exciting ways.  Just ahead we have the “I don’t eat red food” years, followed by the awkward light acne years.  Then the blissful teenage years, right before the college tuition scramble where I give up my Portuguese villa fund, sort of willingly.  Nerves, get ready to enjoy this journey of self-discovery.  And try to look poised, please.

 

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.

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.