Alrighty, then! (cracking knuckles) I'm back in school, I have my sights set on a goal that will utilize my brain, I've started being better about keeping the house picked up (which elevates the house out of "squalor" and into "basically fit for inhabitation"), I survived a week in Europe with no luggage and winter is finally over and it's green and sunny outside my window. Alrighty then.
The artificial color is completely gone from my hair. Amen and amen.
Germaine Greer is a goddess. Behold:
Women over fifty already form one of the largest groups in the population structure of the western world. As long as they like themselves, they will not be an oppressed minority. In order to like themselves they must reject trivialization by others of who and what they are. A grown woman should not have to masquerade as a girl in order to remain in the land of the living.
And behold:
The misery of the middle-aged woman is a gray and hopeless thing, born of having nothing to live for, of disappointment and resentment at having been gypped by consumer society, and surviving merely to be the butt of its unthinking scorn.
"Gypped by consumer society." Buy this mascara! It will finally give you Those Lashes! It will! We tell you this with a straight face even though we fully understand that this mascara is just the same shit you've been buying repeatedly for years in hopes that THIS ONE really will be different! Don't pay any attention to that freak Einstein saying that you're insane because you keep doing the same thing repeatedly, expecting different results! He had horrible, horrible hair. Are you going to listen to someone with hair like that? Puh-leeze.
Then you wake up and you're in your 40's and on top of having spent the equivalent of your phone bill on MASCARA, you also have wrinkles and feel the need to put slimey crap on your hay-ed because for some reason hair that's a shade of red that doesn't exist in nature and totally clashes with your skin and eyebrows is PRETTY. And you think it makes you look younger, but you in reality look like a middle-aged woman who is stupid enough to think that a really bizarre color of hair will make everyone see you as 18 years old. And then you keep going and going and going and you'll be in your 60's with hair that looks like it's been coated with shoe polish and you'll be deeper in debt because, you sucker, you KEPT BUYING MORE MASCARA.
And she pointed out that when one pisses off animals for a living, one is destined to die badly. Sometimes logic isn't popular, but it's right.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Nine Months.
How nice. With my most recent haircut yesterday, I have only a fraction of an inch of artificial color left in my hair. The last time I put that evil crap on my head was almost exactly nine months ago.
Rebirth, anybody?
Rebirth, anybody?
Saturday, March 31, 2007
I'll take mine unbound, please.
Until I was in my mid-20's or so, I wore a size 9 shoe. It took me about ten years to inch into a size 10. Now, in my mid-40's the past few pairs I've purchased have been a solid size 11.
I'm sure some of this can be attributed to that legendary, age-related spread. Our feet spread out. Our noses grow. Our ears get bigger. If we live long enough, we all end up looking like Jimmy Durante.
However, I really think that for many years I was wearing the wrong size. Some of that was because extra-extra-extra-extra wide shoes don't just magically appear in the stores where Normal People shop. Some of it, though, can be directly traced back to my legendary conceit. I have huge feet. I do. There was a point in my life where I didn't want people to know that, even if it caused me huge, literal pain.
I clearly remember as a teenager buying shoes because they were cute, even though they hurt like hell to wear. Seriously. How did I make it to adulthood when I was so freaking stupid as a teenager? I ask you?
I'm at the point now where my comfort easily outweighs your perception. Screw you. If you think my feet are too big, don't look at them. However, I guarantee no one thinks I have big feet. Mostly because the world at large doesn't give a shit about my feet. It's like having a zit at the end of one's nose; to us it's the size of Montana, only with more topographical detail. To the world it's not even noticed. Seriously. It's not. Get over yourself.
I'm 5'9". My Mother always told me that if I had teeny feet I would just fall forward on a constant basis. She was right. They work, they're healthy, I can walk. That's all that matters.
If you have hard-to-fit feet, there is no better place on the planet to buy shoes than www.zappos.com . It's free to mail them back if they don't fit, and they'll keep shipping new ones to you until you find the right size. I would have no shoes if it wasn't for these guys. I heart them.
I'm sure some of this can be attributed to that legendary, age-related spread. Our feet spread out. Our noses grow. Our ears get bigger. If we live long enough, we all end up looking like Jimmy Durante.
However, I really think that for many years I was wearing the wrong size. Some of that was because extra-extra-extra-extra wide shoes don't just magically appear in the stores where Normal People shop. Some of it, though, can be directly traced back to my legendary conceit. I have huge feet. I do. There was a point in my life where I didn't want people to know that, even if it caused me huge, literal pain.
I clearly remember as a teenager buying shoes because they were cute, even though they hurt like hell to wear. Seriously. How did I make it to adulthood when I was so freaking stupid as a teenager? I ask you?
I'm at the point now where my comfort easily outweighs your perception. Screw you. If you think my feet are too big, don't look at them. However, I guarantee no one thinks I have big feet. Mostly because the world at large doesn't give a shit about my feet. It's like having a zit at the end of one's nose; to us it's the size of Montana, only with more topographical detail. To the world it's not even noticed. Seriously. It's not. Get over yourself.
I'm 5'9". My Mother always told me that if I had teeny feet I would just fall forward on a constant basis. She was right. They work, they're healthy, I can walk. That's all that matters.
If you have hard-to-fit feet, there is no better place on the planet to buy shoes than www.zappos.com . It's free to mail them back if they don't fit, and they'll keep shipping new ones to you until you find the right size. I would have no shoes if it wasn't for these guys. I heart them.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Crowning Glory.
Hair, 1978:
Daily:
Wash.
Condition.
Comb as though strands are glass. No tangles. Not allowed.
Part. Perfectly. Down. The. Center. (minimum of three tries to get this exactly right)
Air dry. (minimum of two hours)
Part into several billion two-inch segments.
Wet each segment.
Apply Dippity-Do to segment. (Insert scream of memory here.)
Apply rolling paper. (Not that kind. The kind used during perms to keep the ends from crimping.)
Roll onto custom-designed roller. (Really. I designed and made my own rollers. If only I had used my powers for good.)
Attempt to sleep on said rollers.
Remove.
Fluff.
Wind teeny little baby hairs at widow's peak which would never grow and would stick straight up if not beaten into submission around little rollers.
Take little rollers out when dry.
Fluff some more.
Ponder The Hair and its Super-Bitchin'-Gloriousness.
Time spent daily: Two-Three hours. H.O.U.R.S.
Weekly:
Slather on the most evil-smelling goo known to man, Wella Kolesterol. (Stunk to high heaven, but GOOD STUFF.)
Wrap in plastic shower cap.
Strap on my Mother's ancient bonnet hair dryer.
Bake Kolestrol into hair for at least 30 minutes.
Rinse.
See above.
Quarterly:
Stand on newspapers in the garage while Mom trims A QUARTER INCH! I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU IF IT'S MORE THAN A QUARTER INCH! off the bottom of my hair.
Whenever passing a shiny surface:
I LOVE MY HAIR. MY HAIR IS SO COOL. EVERYONE WANTS HAIR LIKE MINE. IT'S PERFECTLY LOGICAL FOR ME TO SPEND THIS MUCH TIME ON MY HAIR BECAUSE IT IMPROVES SOCIETY IN GENERAL BECAUSE IT IS SO GREAT.
Hair, 2000:
Daily:
Wash.
Condition.
Apply gel.
Blowdry until dry, usually about 10 minutes.
Go over the whole thing with the hot air brush to create curls.
Spray shine-stuff.
Time spent daily: About 45 minutes.
Every three weeks:
Mix and apply evil-smelling, chemical goo which could blind me and cause allergic reactions and make my skin red and put brown blotches all over the bathroom because it's PRETTY.
Every time a hair color commercial came on:
Laugh out loud at the "six weeks of conditioner" and think about what a damn lie it is that anyone can actually GO six weeks between touch-ups.
Every quarter:
Swear up and down that I'm never coloring my hair again.
Whenever passing a mirror:
Ilikedmyhairbetterbackthen,dammit.
Hair, 2007:
Daily, or when there's time:
Wash.
Condition.
Slap on generic no-name gel or mousse.
Air dry.
Time spent daily: Including time in the shower, about seven minutes. Discounting time in the shower, about three.
Once or twice a day while standing in front of a mirror:
Hey, I have hair. That's cool.
Took me almost 30 years, but hell, at least I got here. I rock.
Daily:
Wash.
Condition.
Comb as though strands are glass. No tangles. Not allowed.
Part. Perfectly. Down. The. Center. (minimum of three tries to get this exactly right)
Air dry. (minimum of two hours)
Part into several billion two-inch segments.
Wet each segment.
Apply Dippity-Do to segment. (Insert scream of memory here.)
Apply rolling paper. (Not that kind. The kind used during perms to keep the ends from crimping.)
Roll onto custom-designed roller. (Really. I designed and made my own rollers. If only I had used my powers for good.)
Attempt to sleep on said rollers.
Remove.
Fluff.
Wind teeny little baby hairs at widow's peak which would never grow and would stick straight up if not beaten into submission around little rollers.
Take little rollers out when dry.
Fluff some more.
Ponder The Hair and its Super-Bitchin'-Gloriousness.
Time spent daily: Two-Three hours. H.O.U.R.S.
Weekly:
Slather on the most evil-smelling goo known to man, Wella Kolesterol. (Stunk to high heaven, but GOOD STUFF.)
Wrap in plastic shower cap.
Strap on my Mother's ancient bonnet hair dryer.
Bake Kolestrol into hair for at least 30 minutes.
Rinse.
See above.
Quarterly:
Stand on newspapers in the garage while Mom trims A QUARTER INCH! I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU IF IT'S MORE THAN A QUARTER INCH! off the bottom of my hair.
Whenever passing a shiny surface:
I LOVE MY HAIR. MY HAIR IS SO COOL. EVERYONE WANTS HAIR LIKE MINE. IT'S PERFECTLY LOGICAL FOR ME TO SPEND THIS MUCH TIME ON MY HAIR BECAUSE IT IMPROVES SOCIETY IN GENERAL BECAUSE IT IS SO GREAT.
Hair, 2000:
Daily:
Wash.
Condition.
Apply gel.
Blowdry until dry, usually about 10 minutes.
Go over the whole thing with the hot air brush to create curls.
Spray shine-stuff.
Time spent daily: About 45 minutes.
Every three weeks:
Mix and apply evil-smelling, chemical goo which could blind me and cause allergic reactions and make my skin red and put brown blotches all over the bathroom because it's PRETTY.
Every time a hair color commercial came on:
Laugh out loud at the "six weeks of conditioner" and think about what a damn lie it is that anyone can actually GO six weeks between touch-ups.
Every quarter:
Swear up and down that I'm never coloring my hair again.
Whenever passing a mirror:
Ilikedmyhairbetterbackthen,dammit.
Hair, 2007:
Daily, or when there's time:
Wash.
Condition.
Slap on generic no-name gel or mousse.
Air dry.
Time spent daily: Including time in the shower, about seven minutes. Discounting time in the shower, about three.
Once or twice a day while standing in front of a mirror:
Hey, I have hair. That's cool.
Took me almost 30 years, but hell, at least I got here. I rock.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
The White Stripes
One of the few things I know about my birth mother is that when she was 45 (her age at my birth) she had a very striking white stripe in the front of her hair.
I am currently 45 myself. And I now have a ghost of this woman looking back at me in the mirror. Since tossing the Revlon and growing out my natural color, I have uncovered a rather remarkable white streak in the front of my hair. It's so cool it's making me part my bangs so it's more visible.
My birth mother would be 90 now. It's pretty likely she's not alive at this point. I never before felt a huge need to track down any members of my birth family, but I find myself now wishing I could let them know that The Hair lives on. It's really cool hair. I think they'd be happy to know I'm flaunting it these days.
I am currently 45 myself. And I now have a ghost of this woman looking back at me in the mirror. Since tossing the Revlon and growing out my natural color, I have uncovered a rather remarkable white streak in the front of my hair. It's so cool it's making me part my bangs so it's more visible.
My birth mother would be 90 now. It's pretty likely she's not alive at this point. I never before felt a huge need to track down any members of my birth family, but I find myself now wishing I could let them know that The Hair lives on. It's really cool hair. I think they'd be happy to know I'm flaunting it these days.
Monday, March 19, 2007
NO. Really?
About a month ago the American Psychological Association released a report calling "Bratz" dolls "psychologically damaging" to girls.
How much money did they spend to arrive at this non-bombshell of a conclusion? Bratz dolls make Barbie look absolutely nun-like. Bratz dolls are marketed to 4-8 year old girls. I had dolls when I was 4-8 years old. They wore diapers, not slut clothes. When I wasn't playing with them, I was inside reading things like "A Wrinkle In Time" by Madeleine L'Engle, or outside getting filthy with horses and bikes and baseballs. I could experience the utter fabulousness that was dredging my bare toes through the silt at the bottom of the irrigation ditch because I didn't have to worry about chipping my toenail polish. Mostly because I did not know toenail polish existed, nor did I give a second thought to lip gloss or fishnet stockings.
So ponder again: 4-8 year old girls. FOUR? So according to the AMA, we're actively sexualizing little girls who are just barely out of diapers. A mere two or three years after they've discovered the wonder of the spoken word, we're teaching them that shutting up and baring their navels is the preferred mode of communication.
Quoting here: "Individual studies have found problems related to eating disorders, low self-esteem and depression, but...there hasn't been a body of work that illustrates how these problems are 'directly linked' to sexualized images in ads and popular media. The group recommends more research on girls since the bulk of the studies reviewed dealt with teens and young women."
I never thought I'd have proof, but there it is: I'm smarter than researchers at the AMA. If teens and young women end up in the throes of eating disorders, low self-esteem and depression while dealing with the fall-out of an overly sexualized society, doesn't it stand to reason that it would have all the MORE impact on little girls?
There's no common sense in this world.
How much money did they spend to arrive at this non-bombshell of a conclusion? Bratz dolls make Barbie look absolutely nun-like. Bratz dolls are marketed to 4-8 year old girls. I had dolls when I was 4-8 years old. They wore diapers, not slut clothes. When I wasn't playing with them, I was inside reading things like "A Wrinkle In Time" by Madeleine L'Engle, or outside getting filthy with horses and bikes and baseballs. I could experience the utter fabulousness that was dredging my bare toes through the silt at the bottom of the irrigation ditch because I didn't have to worry about chipping my toenail polish. Mostly because I did not know toenail polish existed, nor did I give a second thought to lip gloss or fishnet stockings.
So ponder again: 4-8 year old girls. FOUR? So according to the AMA, we're actively sexualizing little girls who are just barely out of diapers. A mere two or three years after they've discovered the wonder of the spoken word, we're teaching them that shutting up and baring their navels is the preferred mode of communication.
Quoting here: "Individual studies have found problems related to eating disorders, low self-esteem and depression, but...there hasn't been a body of work that illustrates how these problems are 'directly linked' to sexualized images in ads and popular media. The group recommends more research on girls since the bulk of the studies reviewed dealt with teens and young women."
I never thought I'd have proof, but there it is: I'm smarter than researchers at the AMA. If teens and young women end up in the throes of eating disorders, low self-esteem and depression while dealing with the fall-out of an overly sexualized society, doesn't it stand to reason that it would have all the MORE impact on little girls?
There's no common sense in this world.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Oh, where to start.
How about, "We live in a society of shallow freaking idiots and I'm really, really sick of it." How's that?
Ours is a world where an arguably carcinogenic goo comprised of chemicals with utterly unpronounceable names whose sole purpose is to turn your hair into a color that doesn't exist in nature is titled "Natural Instincts". Ours is a world where really huge, immobile, spherical breasts that do. not. move. are considered the norm, and perfectly healthy bodies are sliced open and stuffed with things that look like huge teething rings in order to make the possessor...what? Perfectly aligned with the universe, at ease with herself, happy, snappy, flawless, completely fulfilled until the end of time? Evidently.
Until the age of 45 I bought into this mindset, to a degree. I've never had cosmetic surgery or Botox of any of the unspeakably bizarre things women are voluntarily submitting themselves to these days. However, I started coloring my hair when I was 30. I also continued to fight with my contact lenses years longer than I should have. I wore soft lenses with utter ease for about ten years; from 14 (when I got them) to about my mid-20's I could pop them in and not even be aware of them until I took them out. As I started edging towards my 30's, my eyes started getting drier. I fought and fought and FOUGHT with the little bastards years longer than I should have.
Really, what it boils down to this this: those voices from our pasts, telling us on the playground that we look stupid in glasses or are flat as boards or have bad skin or what-a-shame-she-got-that-dishwater-brown-when-her-sister-is-that-gorgeous-flaxen-blond are voices that are really hard to ignore. I don't know that a lot of women in this country have managed to ignore them. I think women in Europe are better at ignoring them, which is why they can go without makeup and have hairy pits and still look like a million Euros. They look like a million Euros because they BELIEVE they look like a million Euros. And if they're French, they also know how to tie scarves. That helps.
I continued to wear the Floating Discs Of Doom in my eyes because of those little shits in 4th grade who took my delight at finally being able to see and completely decimated it in a hail of, "GROSS! YOU GOT GLASSES!!!!" It took me almost FORTY YEARS to get past those voices in my head.
I was on the Pom Pon Squad in high school. Hundreds of girls would try out for 12 coveting spots. We were really quite good; we did dance routines that were very complex and required a stunning amount of physical ability. This, of course, had nothing to do with why so many girls wanted to be on the squad. It was those SKIRTS. Those UNIFORMS. That tangible statement, reverently taken out of the closet every Friday morning and donned in a palpable rain of, "You suck. I don't. I'm cooler than you." We really were cuter than hell. Seriously. There wasn't a girl on the squad who wasn't just freaking adorable. Of COURSE we knew it.
I had such fun in high school, due in no small part to the fact that I looked a lot like the girls in the magazines I read. "'Teen" magazine is now defunct, but it was my Bible. I basically memorized each new issue every month. The clear-skinned, bright-eyed, long-haired, skinny-skinny girls portrayed therein were my sisters. I was one smug little turd, knowing just how pretty I was and never giving a thought to the fact that I was going to have about a two year span of my life where this mindset was valid. When one is 16, one IS immortal.
So, I can understand why there are women in this world like Annabel Bowlen, wife of Denver Broncos owner Pat Bowlen. Holy Lord. The woman is the fried-blond, Botoxed, fish-lipped picture of perfection. If "perfection" can be defined as, "If I keep desperately trying to recreate my 25 year old self, everyone will fall for it! They will!"
I started coloring my hair right before my 30th birthday. Right before my 45th I decided I was done being a moron. It's taken me about eight months, but the artificial color is almost gone. I have the uber-coolest white streak in the front of my hair this side of Bonnie Raitt. To facilitate the demise of the artificial color, I got my hair cut really short. I believe I'm going to get it cut even shorter. I've gone from spending an average of three hours a day on my hair (literally) when I was in high school to slicking gel in it and going. It now takes me about three minutes to do my hair.
I gave up the contacts. My eyes haven't felt this good in years.
In short, I took that self-centered, gorgeous but empty Pom Pon girl and shoved her size four ass off a cliff. I bought into it for years, and I understand how hard it is to get away from it, but the mindset of "Be Pretty At All Costs" is expensive and time-consuming. And those are the best things I can say about it. That mindset also keeps you from living a life of any consequence. If I had spent those three hours a day doing something meaningful when I was 16, I could have changed the world. Focusing on the external makes us look at other women as rivals. And it keeps the girls coming up behind us in the same shackles we've dealt with our whole lives. And...it's 2007. Truthfully, didn't you think we'd be LONG past this mindset by now? "Only her hairdresser knows for sure," is something our mothers dealt with. We were supposed to be past that by now. We're not. Not even remotely.
When I see women my age or older who are at first glance very pretty, but at second glance excruciatingly uncomfortable in their own skin, I just want to squeal. I'm feeling so strongly about this topic I decided to start this blog. I have no idea where it will go from here, but...it feels good to admit to this particular form of murder. I highly recommend it.
Ours is a world where an arguably carcinogenic goo comprised of chemicals with utterly unpronounceable names whose sole purpose is to turn your hair into a color that doesn't exist in nature is titled "Natural Instincts". Ours is a world where really huge, immobile, spherical breasts that do. not. move. are considered the norm, and perfectly healthy bodies are sliced open and stuffed with things that look like huge teething rings in order to make the possessor...what? Perfectly aligned with the universe, at ease with herself, happy, snappy, flawless, completely fulfilled until the end of time? Evidently.
Until the age of 45 I bought into this mindset, to a degree. I've never had cosmetic surgery or Botox of any of the unspeakably bizarre things women are voluntarily submitting themselves to these days. However, I started coloring my hair when I was 30. I also continued to fight with my contact lenses years longer than I should have. I wore soft lenses with utter ease for about ten years; from 14 (when I got them) to about my mid-20's I could pop them in and not even be aware of them until I took them out. As I started edging towards my 30's, my eyes started getting drier. I fought and fought and FOUGHT with the little bastards years longer than I should have.
Really, what it boils down to this this: those voices from our pasts, telling us on the playground that we look stupid in glasses or are flat as boards or have bad skin or what-a-shame-she-got-that-dishwater-brown-when-her-sister-is-that-gorgeous-flaxen-blond are voices that are really hard to ignore. I don't know that a lot of women in this country have managed to ignore them. I think women in Europe are better at ignoring them, which is why they can go without makeup and have hairy pits and still look like a million Euros. They look like a million Euros because they BELIEVE they look like a million Euros. And if they're French, they also know how to tie scarves. That helps.
I continued to wear the Floating Discs Of Doom in my eyes because of those little shits in 4th grade who took my delight at finally being able to see and completely decimated it in a hail of, "GROSS! YOU GOT GLASSES!!!!" It took me almost FORTY YEARS to get past those voices in my head.
I was on the Pom Pon Squad in high school. Hundreds of girls would try out for 12 coveting spots. We were really quite good; we did dance routines that were very complex and required a stunning amount of physical ability. This, of course, had nothing to do with why so many girls wanted to be on the squad. It was those SKIRTS. Those UNIFORMS. That tangible statement, reverently taken out of the closet every Friday morning and donned in a palpable rain of, "You suck. I don't. I'm cooler than you." We really were cuter than hell. Seriously. There wasn't a girl on the squad who wasn't just freaking adorable. Of COURSE we knew it.
I had such fun in high school, due in no small part to the fact that I looked a lot like the girls in the magazines I read. "'Teen" magazine is now defunct, but it was my Bible. I basically memorized each new issue every month. The clear-skinned, bright-eyed, long-haired, skinny-skinny girls portrayed therein were my sisters. I was one smug little turd, knowing just how pretty I was and never giving a thought to the fact that I was going to have about a two year span of my life where this mindset was valid. When one is 16, one IS immortal.
So, I can understand why there are women in this world like Annabel Bowlen, wife of Denver Broncos owner Pat Bowlen. Holy Lord. The woman is the fried-blond, Botoxed, fish-lipped picture of perfection. If "perfection" can be defined as, "If I keep desperately trying to recreate my 25 year old self, everyone will fall for it! They will!"
I started coloring my hair right before my 30th birthday. Right before my 45th I decided I was done being a moron. It's taken me about eight months, but the artificial color is almost gone. I have the uber-coolest white streak in the front of my hair this side of Bonnie Raitt. To facilitate the demise of the artificial color, I got my hair cut really short. I believe I'm going to get it cut even shorter. I've gone from spending an average of three hours a day on my hair (literally) when I was in high school to slicking gel in it and going. It now takes me about three minutes to do my hair.
I gave up the contacts. My eyes haven't felt this good in years.
In short, I took that self-centered, gorgeous but empty Pom Pon girl and shoved her size four ass off a cliff. I bought into it for years, and I understand how hard it is to get away from it, but the mindset of "Be Pretty At All Costs" is expensive and time-consuming. And those are the best things I can say about it. That mindset also keeps you from living a life of any consequence. If I had spent those three hours a day doing something meaningful when I was 16, I could have changed the world. Focusing on the external makes us look at other women as rivals. And it keeps the girls coming up behind us in the same shackles we've dealt with our whole lives. And...it's 2007. Truthfully, didn't you think we'd be LONG past this mindset by now? "Only her hairdresser knows for sure," is something our mothers dealt with. We were supposed to be past that by now. We're not. Not even remotely.
When I see women my age or older who are at first glance very pretty, but at second glance excruciatingly uncomfortable in their own skin, I just want to squeal. I'm feeling so strongly about this topic I decided to start this blog. I have no idea where it will go from here, but...it feels good to admit to this particular form of murder. I highly recommend it.
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