Beauty

It takes some effort to look like this

Since I seem to have some deep, compelling need to confess every beauty blunder, I have a confession to make about my latest case of bad beauty judgement. I have no idea why I feel the need to tell y’all every detail of how I am, apparently, trying to make myself less attractive. Let’s just call it Beauty Gone Bad starring Big Mama.

And last month when I shared my other major beauty faux pas of the summer, it warmed my heart to know that many of you have also suffered at the table of bangs. Sometimes a girl just needs to know she’s not alone.

On a completely different side note, can I just tell y’all that I used my new WordPress search feature to find all the posts where I’ve mentioned my beauty mishaps and by just entering the word “mustache”, it pulled up like 15 different posts. I think I have some serious issues.

Anyway, about a month ago, I mentioned that I was in the process of getting laser hair removal treatments. It was a long, sad tale of woe with much whining and crying about the pain. The terrible pain. The unendurable, heat of 1,000 suns pain. Compelling stuff, really.

Anyway, after that treatment I asked Laser Girl if there was anything I could do, besides taking 14 shots of Jose Cuervo, to lessen the pain. She told me that I could purchase a tube of Dermacaine for the bargain basement price of $40.00. I immediately decided it would be the best $40.00 I’d spend all year, or at least for that week.

Hook me up with the Dermacaine, Laser Girl.

She handed me my tube of miracle cream with instructions to apply the cream 1 hour before my next treatment. Honestly, my upper lip and underarms were burning so badly, the prospect of the Dermacaine was the only reason I made another appointment.

Fast forward to last week.

I obsessively waited until 1 hour and 10 minutes prior to my hair removal appointment. At just the right moment, I opened up the miracle in a tube and began to apply it to all areas that would be experiencing the torture. And then, I just sat and waited for it to take effect.

After a short while, I began to feel some tingling on my upper lip. Good sign. Very good sign. Who says no pain, no gain? I am totally going to beat this whole pain thing. Ha Ha, I am so clever and wise. I am so glad I spent the $40.00 because now that laser will feel like the whisper of 1,000 fairies.

And then, because I am an idiot, I licked my lips. Immediately, my tongue went numb.

I don’t know why I licked my lips. They weren’t dry. I hadn’t eaten anything. It was just a reflex. A dumb reflex. And just as I was realizing that I could no longer feel my tongue, I realized I could no longer feel my throat. All my internal organs were completely numb.

I was dead inside.

I drove to my appointment and called Gulley on my cell phone. I could barely talk for all the not feeling of my tongue and internal organs. I honestly think even my teeth were numb.

I arrived at Laser Girl’s office and she looked confused to see me, or maybe she was just staring at the drool running down my chin due to the fact that I couldn’t feel anything. I said, “Heyth, I hath appotmet dith mownin”, and she looked at her calendar and I wasn’t on the schedule. She explained she was on her way out the door for a mammogram because she was having surgery, and asked if I could reschedule.

And here is where I’d like to write phonetically how it sounded as I explained to her that I was all strung out on the Dermacaine and I hated to waste part of my $40.00 investment in pain relief and I’d driven 30 minutes to get to her office. But I’m not going to, because I am very busy contemplating other ways to make myself hideous. Anyway, she took pity on me, or more likely, wanted to get my drooling, mumbling presence out of the waiting room filled with only beautiful things and perfect, cosmetic miracles of modern medicine. She said she had time to go ahead with the appointment.

She also confessed that her mammogram and impending surgery were purely cosmetic in nature, thus relieving me of my guilt in begging her to wait a few more minutes for her mammogram. I wish she and her 2 new friends many happy years together.

I walked into the procedure room, put on my laser goggles, so as not to sear my corneas, and was perfectly at peace knowing I would feel nothing. Ahhh, it’ll be like a few minutes at the spa.

Or a few minutes of pure, unmitigated torture.

Curse you, Dermacaine. Curse you. You and your faulty pharmacodynamics.

How is it possible to make my small intestine numb, but yet my underarms retained all feeling despite being slathered in Dermacaine?

And the best part?

I still have 2 treatments left.

Next time I’m bringing in my bottle of Wild Turkey.
Oh I would, but I just don’t want to

I’m so glad that y’all got as big of a kick as I did over my fab new blouse. But for the record, if y’all think I’m going to put that thing on and take a picture of myself in it and post it on the World Wide Web for God and whoever, or whomever, or whatever to see, then might I suggest that you lay off the alcohol.

Between the braces on my teeth and that blouse, it would really be more metallic sheen than anyone needs to see on one person.

I don’t want y’all to think the reason I never post any pictures of myself is because I am vain and not thrilled with how I look wearing braces because, honestly, the truth is, I am vain and not thrilled with how I look wearing braces.

So, don’t blame me for the lack of photos, blame my orthodontist.

And really, the two pictures I have posted of myself where I am looking down are really some of the best photos I have ever taken, because the camera?

She doesn’t love me, my friends.

And on a similar note relating to unphotogenic-ness (yes, it’s a word), I made a mistake about 3 weeks ago that I am just now ready to own up to. I’ve been suffering in silence because I didn’t want to admit that I made a mistake, and oh, what a mistake it was.

Did y’all see Reese Witherspoon at the Academy Awards or Golden Globes and she had done the revenge weight loss, look-fab-plan-to-get-back-at-your-man type thing? And she had that cute, long hair with those cute bangs and she just looked the best she’s looked in forever. I decided I needed to get myself some of those bangs.

It was a bad call.

I went to my hairdresser and showed him the picture of cutey-cute Reese Witherspoon and her precious bangs and asked him his thoughts. He said it would work for me (total lie), but perhaps we shouldn’t cut the bangs as thick as Reese’s, especially since I have a cowlick just off the center of my forehead.

And here’s the thing. Here’s the part where I just lost all sense.

I know I have a cowlick in the off center part of my forehead. It was the bane of my existence back in the days of teasing my bangs until they cried out for mercy and I silenced them by hosing them down with Flex Net Super Hold, but time and side swept long bangs had caused me to forget about angry cowlick with constant PMS. The bangs work for Reese, why shouldn’t they work for me?

Well, for starters, the cowlick. And to make matters worse, my hairdresser was delicately trimming my new bangs and I was waiting to behold my Reese-ness (except that I’m not blonde, my hair wouldn’t stay that straight if I ironed it, and I don’t have an adorable heart-shaped face) when he said, “Wow. It looks like your bangs have quite a bit of wave in them.”

Well that’s not good.

What he meant by “quite a bit of wave” was that my new bangs were pretty straight until right at the end where they do this weird, flip out, crease-type thing like, perhaps, they got caught in a door. I feel certain that the change in my hormones after pregnancy is responsible for this treachery.

To make the bangs work at all requires me to hold them flat against my head while I blow them dry and then, flatten them into oblivion with my straightening iron while cursing the day I ever saw Reese Witherspoon glide across the stage with her fancy bangs.

Needless to say, I am growing them out, and bobby pins and headbands have become my new best friends. And if y’all think there is anything more attractive than a woman in her mid-30’s with braces on her teeth and bobby pins holding back her bangs, well you just don’t know the half of it. I have even had mornings where I’ll throw on a baseball cap to just block the whole thing out, because there is nothing more frustrating than straight ironing your bangs until they sizzle, only to walk outside and have the humidity turn you into the girl with frizzy bangs that split just off center of her forehead due to a bad cowlick.

I totally blame Reese Witherspoon.

And my orthodontist.
Hair today, pain tomorrow

About a month ago, when I still was earning a paycheck and I spent money like we were the Ewings, but without the blackmail and deceit, I decided to make a lifelong dream come true and purchase a laser hair removal package for myself. Because really, Caroline is a smart girl and will probably get a scholarship to college, she doesn’t need us for tuition. Plus, how am I supposed to give her the enriched childhood she deserves if I’m spending all my time waxing and shaving? There just aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all.

So, I did some research in the form of asking Dee, my former co-worker, about the process. She is an authority on all beauty type issues and I knew she had laser hair removal done a few years ago. I called Dee’s laser girl (not the technical term), purchased a hair removal package over the phone because it was ON SALE , and then scheduled the first of my five appointments, which is how many times it takes to completely shock all your hair follicles out of existence.

And then, I quit my job.

However, since the sessions were already paid for, there was no turning back, which is just proof that God was looking out for me and figured if I was going to spend my summer chasing a 3 year old around the pool, that my life would be easier if I didn’t have to worry about bikini line, underarm, and upper lip maintenance. My life will be stressful enough just spending so much time in a swimsuit.

He is truly the giver of all good gifts.

The day of my first session, I drove to the doctor’s office and was so excited. I was almost there when Dee called to check on me. I asked her the question that, in my infinite foolishness, I had neglected to ask earlier, “Does it hurt?”

She answered, “Not really. I mean you’ve had a baby, so you can handle it.”

Oh. my. word.

It wasn’t exactly the comforting analogy I was looking for. Yes, I have experienced childbirth, but please note that I only have one child. While it was an incredible experience, it’s not one that I’m looking to repeat with any frequency. Plus, I was pretty sure the cost of laser hair removal didn’t include an epidural.

I went in and signed a stack of paperwork that basically said that I could experience a myriad of unpleasant side effects, including the darkening and/or lightening of the skin on my upper lip. I prayed for a miraculous lightening of that skin, crossed my fingers and laid on the table. The dermatologist came in for a consultation, which consisted of him looking at my lip, stating the obvious “you have dark hair”, and then pronouncing me a fit candidate for the procedure. Then, Laser girl came in and I asked her if it was going to hurt. She replied, “Oh, yeah. It will hurt”, and then repeated Dee’s comparison and said, “but you’ve had a baby”.

Great. I am an idiot who doesn’t ask the right questions far enough in advance. Maybe while I was feeling so giddy about my 20% discount, I should have asked about the pain. But oh no, it was much more important that I was getting a good deal.

Laser girl applied some type of gel to my lip and an ice pack and went to work. Ironically, the laser was called the Cool Touch 1000, which is the biggest oxymoron of all time. The Cool Touch 1000 burned like the heat of 10,000 white hot suns surrounding a planet of volcanoes filled with molten lava.

At one point, Laser girl stopped before moving on to my underarms and I asked her if someone had burned some popcorn in the office. She replied, “Oh no, that burning smell is your skin and your hair.”

Well, what a relief.

All I really know about torture is what I used to watch on Alias, oh, and also what my orthodontist does to me on a monthly basis, but make no mistake about it, this laser hair removal stuff ranks up there for sure. It would make Jack Bauer talk.

However, for the last few weeks as I’ve marveled over the fact that I don’t have to shave my underarms or apply Surgi-cream hair removal to my lip, I’ve decided it’s all worth it. Like childbirth, the end product is so great that you forget what you endured to get to that point.

Unfortunately, unlike childbirth, I have to go back for 4 more sessions before I am completely done.

Next time (yeah, right), I’m asking for the package that includes the epidural.
Here is what I know about medieval forms of torture

I believe that I have mentioned that I currently have braces on my teeth. Oh yes, yes I do.

Nothing really makes you feel more awkward than being in your mid-30’s and having to worry about one of your rubber bands shooting out of your mouth while engaged in adult conversation. So y’all will understand when I say that I feel like Ugly Betty is a little bit of a kindred spirit.

I had thought about getting braces for years. My teeth were pretty straight until I was about 18, and if y’all think I was going to get braces before going off to college, well you’re grossly overestimating the state of my self-esteem at that point in my life.

About 5 years ago, I went to the orthodontist (which is the Latin derivative for sadistic, cruel torture wielder of incredible pain) and took all the initial steps to make my dream of adult orthodontia come true, but I backed out. Then one night last October, I told P that I was going to do it. I made an appointment for the following Tuesday.

Little did I know that my orthodontist knew me well. The moment he got me back in that office, he slapped these metal torture devices on me so fast that it made my head spin. He knew that if he let me walk out the door without them, he may never see me again.

I called P on the way home and let him know I actually had braces on my teeth. Actually ON my teeth. P is known for his complete honesty in all situations and I gave him advance notice so that he could be kind to my already damaged psyche. He said he didn’t believe me at first, but then realized that while I was saying “I have braces on my teeth”, what he was hearing was “I hath bratheth on my teeth.”

Later that afternoon I had to pick Caroline up from school. I couldn’t have felt more self-conscious so my plan was to get in and get out fast. I walked into the classroom, waved to the teacher and picked up Caroline’s things. I looked at her and said “okay, let’s go” while keeping my mouth as closed as I could. She immediately looked up at me and said in her best non-indoors voice, “YOUR MOUTH, MAMA, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR MOUTH?” Subtlety…not so much the hallmark trait of 2 year olds.

One of the things that made me the happiest after going through the ordeal of having FOUR teeth pulled and metal spikes glued to my teeth was when people would say “Why did you get braces? I never even noticed that your teeth were crooked.” Which just goes to show how little other people notice the flaws that drive you crazy. I spent years thinking people were looking at me and thinking that I might have in a set of those fake Billy Bob teeth that you can buy at the convenience store. I guess that was all in my head. A fact that would have been nice to know a year ago.

Yesterday morning I had my monthly visit to the orthodontist’s office. I knew I was in trouble when he walked in and gave me a cheery “Hi Sport!”. He then proceeded to twist wires and teeth and use a rubber mallet to hammer something into place. A mallet…in my mouth. Needless to say, last night I gave myself a triple dose of Advil followed by a pain pill leftover from childbirth. Pain my friends, I am in pain.

At one point, I was so uncomfortable that I started biting down on something to help get through the pain. He had to tell me that it was his finger. Y’all know what? I wasn’t even sorry.
Like Magnum but without the ferarri

I had a relatively easy pregnancy. I didn’t gain too much weight, I wasn’t too uncomfortable and don’t hate me but I was wearing my normal clothes again 2 weeks after I gave birth. I will admit that I was a little bit like “Hello, my name is fabulous” about my easy, breezy, beautiful gestation, but oh…the gods of pregnancy are fair my friends, they are fair.

Do you know what I’m talking about when I say pregnancy mask? Or the technical term “melasma”? It’s when your skin gets blotchy dark patches due to hormones.

I discovered the summer after I had Caroline that my hormones had undergone some kind of unspeakable horror that was causing me to have what looked like a mustache on my face. I will never forget looking at our pictures from 4th of July and asking P. “is that what I look like? Oh my good gracious, I have a mustache!” His reply was that since I’m half Italian he just thought I was dark and hairy. Did he not realize I hadn’t had a mustache during the eight previous years he had known me?

I IMMEDIATELY headed down to the closest Eckerds to load up with every kind of bleaching cream known to man. I scrubbed, I bleached, I sunscreened and wore a hat that provided shade to anyone in a five foot radius when I was out in the sun. And thankfully, it faded.

The problem is that just like bad relatives, it comes back for a visit every summer. The lethal cocktail of the sun combined with my hormones seems to call it into being. My dermatologist told me that it would go away for good if I got off the pill, but really for the time being if the choice is having a newborn or looking like Tom Selleck three months of the year…I’ll choose to go the Magnum PI route.

At least for the other 9 months of the year, it’s barely noticeable. But the lesson I’ve learned is that it doesn’t matter how good you look in your bathing suit at the pool if you have a mustache that might cause a kid working at the grill to say “Excuse me Sir, your tater tots are ready”.