Posts Tagged ‘beauty’

The one who disdains tattoos, joined the inked set last week.
I got my first tattoos–four of them, but in my mind these don’t count.

I have asked myself for a very long time if there was a tattoo attractive enough and timeless enough to keep me from regretting it later.  So far, I haven’t come up with anything, but I recently decided to get the same tattoos my mother had, and the same tattoos some of the girlfriends have–the cult markings of the perpetually vain–permanent make-up, not everything, just a little bit of eyeliner.

I was weary of trying to get my eyeliner just right, only to have it smudge or smear.  Cleanly tattooed eyeliner seemed to be the solution to an oft-recurring problem.  After a bit of research, I chose a local salon.  Ana, the owner has been tattooing lips, eyes, & brows for 30 years and quickly won my confidence.

First was the consult.  I tend not to wear much make-up, so I chose a less is more style.  I had the choice of soft- or hard-edged lines and a palette of colors from which to choose.  After I’d selected a color, came a patch test–done inconspicuously on the head to make sure the pigments in the ink won’t cause an allergic reaction.

Two days later, patch-test successful, it was time to do it.  I was trying hard not to talk myself out of it.  When I arrived, Ana quickly reassured me, insisting I’d be glad I had this done.

My eyelids were prepared with an numbing cream.  Ana & I revisited what was decided during the consult.  She was very conscientious in trying to assure she understood what I wanted.  Ana takes great pride in her cleanliness, so as she set up her materials, she showed me that every single thing was being removed from one-time use sterile packaging.  Additionally, every surface was covered in one-time use plastic.

The tool she uses looks like a combination of an Exacto knife, and click eraser–but I wasn’t intimidated.
The first puncture startled me.  The second startled me.  Each subsequent puncture was more unnerving.  Having seen the tool, I was surprised it felt like having one’s eyelids snipped with scissors.   Mimi, my bikini waxer, has taught me it’s best to avoid caffeine before painful procedures.  Laying on the table, I’m wishing I’d skipped the latte this morning.   I’m taking deep breaths, mentally wanting to MapQuest my happy place.  Having my eyelids  intentionally injured has turned me into a wuss.  I sit up abruptly and ask for ibuprofen.  (Another thing I’ve learned–a couple of ibuprofen before a painful procedure can take the edge off.)  She says yes, and disappears.  A few minutes later, she returns with a couple of tablets and a bottle of water.  I gulp the water, swallow the pills and take more deep breaths.

She reminds me that she has a sharp object near my eyes and admonishes me to avoid sudden movements.  As she finishes the first line, she hands me a mirror.  So far so good.  After each new line, she again hands me the mirror.  There is some excess ink on the eyes, so it’s hard to know the true result.  She assures me the color will lighten in a few days.

At the end of the procedure, she removes the excess ink and lets me inspect.  After she flushes my eyes with eye wash drops, I drove home with eyes that feel the way they would if I hadn’t slept in 36 hours–a combination of heaviness and sandpaper.

The following morning, I woke up with eyelids that were slightly swollen and a little bit red.  It is too early to know if I’ve made a mistake, but what I see in the mirror is scary.  Though the top appears to be perfectly natural, the lowers are a bit Alice Cooper.  Missing the natural look, I am wondering what insanity made me do this.  The eyelids aren’t healed enough for make-up yet, so the dark line without any mascara is glaringly harsh.

Knowing this, as soon as the inflammation subsides, I carefully wash my eyelids and put on a little bit of mascara. It’s a little better, but I’m still wondering if this will be something to regret for years.  There is a big party on Thursday night.  I am hoping that by Thursday, I’ll be able to work with whatever it is I’ve got.

Thursday morning comes.  They eyes are fully recovered and feeling quite normal, so I clean them well.  To my surprise, the harsh pigment on them is washing off.  It seems much of the dark line was only superficial.  The newly washed eyelids don’t appear to have had anything done.  There is a dark thin line at the bases of the eyelashes, but nothing scary.  The color is softer than what I’d imagined.  The mistake I thought I had made, seems to have corrected itself.

Unfortunately, because it is so subtle, I find myself applying eyeliner in the same way I always have.  I am thinking the money spent may have been a waste, but I am very relieved to realize at least I’m not doomed to wake up looking like a goddess of goth.

In two weeks, I’m scheduled to go for a touch-up.  Haven‘t decided whether I‘ll go back.  It didn’t turn out the way I’d wished, but maybe I’m glad.  Putting on eyeliner is bothersome, but at least when I get it wrong, I can start over.

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The kids started it.
There was a piercing, followed by another piercing.  The second piercing was followed by a discreet tattoo.  There was a more daring piercing, then a less discreet tattoo.  Soon, the piercings were more numerous and the tattoos no longer hidden.  Eventually, it wasn’t just the kids, but also the mothers and fathers eager to show off their latest ink.

Still conservative enough to feel saddened by young girls who had opted to let their bodies become a canvas for graphic designs, I realized visible body alterations were only the tip of the iceberg.  The trend of body modifications was becoming more the norm, than the exception; but while the 20-somethings were embracing glass gauged ears, and tongue barbells, their mothers (and sometimes fathers) were choosing everything from Botox and lipo-sculpting  to silicone add-on parts.

Hold on!  Back up the car!  Did you see that?
It wasn’t the kids who started it.  Rewind that tape.

Nope.

Not the kids–Mom started it–the same mother who told her children they were perfect, special, unique-one-of-a-kind,  & limited edition.

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Mom did her best to convince the kids they were already uniquely perfect, but it was a “do as I say, not as I do” thing, leaving many feeling the need to do things to make themselves stand out.  It would seem that outrageous bod-mods would be a  completely unnecessary expression of individuality, unless those who do them aren’t all that unique. In the same spirit as the t-shirt that says, “I’m unique, just like everybody else”, staunch individuals started doing the same thing everyone else was doing.

A recent  internet foray caused me to be distracted by a photo gallery of celebrity tattoos.  Though I have very little interest in the lives of celebrities, I was fascinated to see that everyone from Miley Cyrus to Helen Mirren were getting inked.  I wasted too much time gawking and scratching my head, before being drawn into a second gallery of celebrity plastic surgeries.  I couldn’t look away, and was soon after browsing a third gallery of disastic-plastic surgeries.

It seams that even non-celebs can gain celebrity exposure by having excessive “procedures”, like  Cindy Jackson, the woman who spent countless thousands to look like Barbie or the freakish socialite turned crazy-cat, Jocelyn Wildenstein.

We’ve come along way from the age when plastic surgeons specialized in reconstructive surgeries like fixing bad noses or large ears.  The surgeries were becoming more cosmetic, as younger and more attractive individuals began opting for procedures intended to eliminate minor flaws or make them look like someone else.

I can understand and embrace the reasons women seek cosmetic procedures–but I wonder why we,  as a culture, are so dissatisfied with what we see in the mirror.  A little this (nip) or that (tuck) to reconcile what’s in the mirror–I’m down with that, but it’s like having a room that seems okay–except for the worn carpet.  Replace the carpet, and suddenly, the drapes seem dowdy and the coffee table looks dated.

One day you’re a normal person, fixing a legitimate flaw, but if that turns out not to be enough, it’s only a matter of time before you’re riding the rapids down the Joan Rivers or crossing into the  The Tropic of Michael Jackson–headed toward Neverland.

The problem is each little procedure brings us closer, but NEVER close enough to the thing we can NEVER achieve–perfection.  The things we do to become more beautiful, make us less unique.  The things we do to make ourselves more unique, can make us less beautiful.

In a perfect world, we’d all look into the eyes in the mirror and see our own unique unspoiled beauty, but this is not a perfect world and the mirror is a fickle friend.  Some days it blows you a kiss and tells you you’re stunning.  Other days, it winces as your eyes meet.  Even if you could achieve perfection, it wouldn’t make you happy.  You’d no longer fit in with the rest of us.

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Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so they say–yet women hold fast to ideals that are not universal about what is attractive.  Many of them are ridiculous.

At the top of the list is the suntan.  Coco Chanel popularized the look after returning from a vacation on The Riviera with sun-darkened skin–causing many to want to emulate the fashion icon.  Previously, the suntan was considered “working class”–the look of a laborer.

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Similarly crazy is in a country with an abundance of food, is women striving to look as if they’ve barely survived a famine.  If the American ideal of beauty made sense, we’d all be plump & pasty.  It’s nonsensical, but us gals buy into it.  As part of our feminine mystique, we’ve grown accustomed to trying to conform to and match an ideal.

Male readers, I beg of you.  STOP.   Stop now.  You’re better off not knowing.  It will be much easier for you to pretend, if you don’t have to acknowledge reality.  Hold on to the sweet notion, that beautiful women only have hair on their silky-tressed heads.  Run along now, so us girls can talk.

When I was a girl, I was convinced I was very hairy.  In my mind, I was the probable missing link.  My mother (who barely had body hair) wasn’t down with hair removal.  She like many others, was convinced that removing it would cause one to grow more hair.  Not only that, but to her armpit hair was too closely related to pubic hair–therefore it wasn’t even something to be discussed.

She would have had a fit if she’d known my older sister used Nair, so my sister cleverly hid the Nair in an Avon Here’s My Heart sachet jar.  It was a great decoy until the day I decided to borrow her sachet.   The perm-solution smell was the first clue.

There was the first time I tried to wax my brows.  I’d seen the neighbor lady do it dozens of times–it seemed straightforward enough until I accidentally removed most of my left brow.  I am still thankful there weren’t many pictures taken of me that summer.

Eventually she came around.  I was allowed to wax the brows and shave the other stuff.  She warned me it would grow in thicker.  It didn’t.

So, over the years, I’ve tried almost ever method of hair removal.

Mine has been cut,
Plucked.
Burned.
Chemically processed.
There are hens at the Tyson plant that haven’t been as through as many processes as this chick.
My favorite is laser.  Not as cheap or  convenient as a quick shave in the shower, but so very worth the time & money.  Laser-scorched armpits?  It’s a very good thing.  I’ve almost forgotten when sleeveless, required shaving.

Waxing is popular, which proves that when it comes to beauty, women are sheep–except we prefer having hair ripped out forcibly from the most sensitive parts of our bodies, to being shorn.   Sisters, you have to know men would never do that for women.  Though there are men who are devotees of waxing, but it rarely has anything to do with women.  Enough said.

So yesterday, I decided to try something new.  As an alternative to my regular eyebrow grooming, I decided to try “threading”.  I had heard it was virtually painless.  It was cheap enough–and what the heck?  I am YOUR guinea pig.

Threading has only recently arrived in my suburb.  On a whim, I drove to the mall to see what I’d been missing–a very risky move.

Like the rest of our ideas about beauty–the perfect brow varies from woman to woman.  I have learned this the hard way, after leaving a salon with eyebrows that were strangely menacing.   There are many styles to choose from, that day I got the “Cruella D’eville.”

I might just have easily been given one of the many other popular styles.

The Natural -  The quintessential all free-spirited, free-range brow.  I was born with that one and have spent most of my adult life trying to divorce myself from that look.

The Tia Juana – Strongly arched and precisely shaped.  After the age of 27, this one makes everyone look like Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest.

The Cholita – Total eyebrow nudity replaced with Sharpie art.  It has a sort of  “Don’t mess with me, I’ll cut you vibe”  You have to fear a girl who can leave the house looking like that.

The Caterpillar -  A soft fuzzy little curve–harmless, approachable, and friendly–if you like that kind of thing.

I was merely hoping to leave looking, more or less, the same as when I came in. I’ve spent half of my adult life trying to get figure out how I liked them and I don’t want anyone messing them up.   I looked at a chart that seemed to have every eyebrow shape–except mine and Andy Rooney’s.
Knowing that there are all kinds of ways this can go wrong, I ask for just a little touch up.

I was seated in something like a dentist’s chair.  Lulu began twisting a length of dental floss into a something between scissors and Cat’s in the Cradle, as she went to work.  I had intended to pay close attention to the process, but having my brow hairs twisted out made my eyes water.

It took less than 5 minutes for her to fully groom my brows and give me a hand mirror with which  to inspect the result.   It was surprisingly painful, but no worse than waxing or plucking.  On the upside, it was very quick–a huge plus.  No matter what service I’m receiving, I always appreciate efficiency.

Bottom line:
Time spent:  Approximately four minutes.
Pain Meter:  Somewhat painful, but not bad.
Cost:  $15. With tip.
Convenience:  Excellent and efficient.
Result:  Nicely nicely groomed brows.

Overall, I’d say my first adventure with threading was a big success.  Not sure if I’ll become a regular, but knowing it’s done in less time than it takes for the kids to reach the The Food Court makes it likely.

Best thing about being having a blog is being able to say whatever I think, but almost every day someone tells me they don’t agree with me.  Hello?  Was I supposed to be writing your opinion today?  Perhaps, I missed the memo.

I catch a lot of flak.  My political friends are offended.  My religious friends are offended.  My opinionated friends are offended.  At this rate, I’ll be down to a handful of friends in no time, and whoever is left will probably be too boring to hang with, because they’ll have no opinions of their own.

So with that in mind, I say once again . . it’s a BLOG, not a CULT, I’m not trying to convert anyone. Today’s opinion will blow my shot at Miss Congeniality, but I was never a serious contender anyway.

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Most of the time, I dress according to my own personality, but every now & again I jump on a trend like everyone else.  Most of them, are regrettable eventually.  Spiral perms, baggy pants, dresses with hoods, and Earth shoes come to mind.

My teen son likes trendy clothes.  Most of the time he looks great–sometimes he looks ridiculous.  When he’s around his peers, he’s mostly allowed to wear what his peers are wearing.   Around my peers, he is reminded who pays for his clothing.  I could overreact, but I figure seeing the pictures a decade from now, will be punishment enough for having worn saggin’ pants.   It’s only clothing–clothing comes and goes.

Long hair, dreadlocks, guy-liner, piercing–are all thing to which other mothers might object.  If my son suddenly took a liking to wearing lipstick & nail polish, I wouldn’t like it, but I wouldn’t overreact.  I’m confident he’d outgrow it–just like a favorite nephew who took to wearing a skirt several years ago.  Despite the horror it caused those around him, he turned out okay.  Near as I can tell, he got skirt-wearing out of his system.

On this, I’m pretty libertarian–except in regards to a few things.

I love ink.  I really do.  For a period of time I made my living with ink, beautiful richly pigmented inks.  Precise, crisp and permanent, I loved everything about it–but I didn’t like getting it on my clothes, because it doesn‘t come out.  Nor did I like having it on my skin, because it’s hard to get off.

Some people love ink on their skin.  Tattoos have become very trendy and that popularity seems to be growing.  I’d like to hope it’s just a trend, but it  may be here to stay.  Whether or not this trend stays, the ink will.

Which makes me ask “WHY?”

Why would anyone choose a trend over a classic never-fail look?

Hems go up and down.  Ties, collars and pant legs widen and narrow.  Hairstyles change.  Only one thing is constant–skin.  Beautiful, smooth, unadorned skin is attractive in every season.  On the face, the arms, the legs, the chest, the shoulders–it’s irresistible.  From Milan to Paris, from the equator to the auto showroom, skin always works.  Since Adam and Eve, skin has yet to become passé.

It comes in many colors and it can be paired with anything.  It’s truly versatile.  Whether you show a lot or a little, it’s always provocative and interesting.  Since the beginning of time artists of every medium have found it a source of endless inspiration.

That’s why I can’t understand why anyone would want to alter theirs with ink.  To me it’s rather like tagging The Grand Canyon or adding some kicky murals to The White House.  I know  many don’t share my sentiments, for which I’m sorry.  I am especially sorry, when I see a beautiful girl all inked up.

I was at the gas station and a girl with drop-dead-gorgeous everything was next to me.  Her arm was inked, her back was inked, her neck was inked.   It seemed like a damned shame to me.  Under all that ink, was nice skin.

There will come a day when she won’t be as fresh and lovely as she is today, but she’ll still have the ink.  When she’s in a rest home, she’ll be in good company with all the other painted ladies,  trying to remember what their tattoos were.

Not me.  I’ll be the one in the walker still showing some skin.

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I receive a lot of compliments on my hair.  Just as I don’t believe everyone who tells me they don’t color their hair, many people don’t believe I color mine.

I love my hair, but every couple of years, I get tired of  the time spent maintaining the illusion that my hair is as completely raven, as it was when I was 19.

At those times, I throw up my hands and I throw down the towel.  I say goodbye to the gloves and little vials of hair color, as I resolve to go natural.   I am woman, the hair is but a small detail.  I am so much more than a great head of  espresso-colored hair .

In that brief moment of time, I almost convince myself it is time for the world to recognize my natural beauty.  Then, I catch a glimpse of stray gray and continue as before.

I ponder my  girlfriends who have forsaken hair color, refusing to surrender their identities to somebody else’s vision of beauty.  Some of them also face the world boldly without makeup.  Unnaturally natural, these women hold their un-dyed heads high.

For the most part they are educated and well-employed.  They are women who have the respect of both men and other women.  They are women I admire, but that doesn’t keep me from thinking about how something like Gold Dust  Shade # 12, or Harvest Honey Shade #14,  might earn them a whole new level of admiration.

I spend the day with one of my girlfriends from this category.  For most of the time we are together, I’m wondering if our friendship is strong enough to stand up to a little well-intended suggestion that she try a teensy bit of powder or a smidgen of blush.  I search the polite phrases I know  for the proper way to suggest to a great skin-toner.    Because she’s brilliant, I’m trying to listen to everything she says, but instead I’m focusing on how lifeless her eyes seem without mascara.

If she were to have a “make-over”,  would it affect the way she were perceived?  Would the world listen more intently to what she had to say, if her lipstick were Power-Tie Red?

Possibly, but probably not.

I can’t speak for them, but I know I’d be able to concentrate better on what she was saying, if I weren’t so distracted by wanting her to conform to my own notion of attractiveness.