Salon Selectives

I love going to the hair salon. Not only do you walk in with gray roots and a frizzy, triangular do and walk out with a gleaming helmet of style, while this transformation is taking place, you get to paw through a thousand shiny magazines! And unlike Doctor or Dentist visits, you actually have time to do due diligence.

At my last reincarnation, I read publications I didn't even know existed. I spent almost an hour gleaning articles and came out armed to the teeth with ideas for what books to read next, continuing education, girls' holidays, anti-aging products, and hotel ideas should I ever get to Austria. I also read a number of personal narratives, including one in More magazine where the woman tried to be a perfect mother and finally realized that all she wanted was for the kids to realize she did the best she could. What an epiphany! I teared up and had to fight to find my hands under the protective cape so that I could administer a tissue (sob!).

I left feeling very informed about the world at large and more importantly, the world of celebrities. I also felt empowered and rejuvenated. Reading at the salon is a little like the fries that come with your burger, secondary but often more satisfying: a sensory treat.

Please take the 'man' out of manicure

This afternoon I went for a manicure. It hadn’t been that long since my last one but I had done some irresponsibly-gloveless gardening and my nails were splitting. So, to avoid the appearance of diva-ness (although, in my town, it honestly wouldn’t have caused a ripple), I went to a different-than-usual nail salon. This was a mistake.

A young man waived me over and reluctantly I sat down opposite him to begin what became a very tedious procedure. Waah, waah, poor little rich girl, right? I know it’s not PC but I don’t like male manicurists. On the whole I find them to be rough, careless and surly (what I want in a man but not a manicurist – tee hee, just kidding!). This guy put on a surgical mask which immediately made me feel like a leper, then proceeded to take an hour (an HOUR) to file and polish my nails. He was looking everywhere but my hands, consistently sanding the skin around my nails and he must have left me at least eight times to answer the phone or talk to his friend. The back massage at the end – my second favorite part of a manicure – lasted precisely 0.7 seconds. AND, they didn’t have the color ‘Wink’ so I had to settle for ‘Hearts and Tarts.’ So a loose leper.

Manicures are my one beauty indulgence and I usually get one once a month, if that. I don’t even need the color really, I just love the hand massage and the way it makes my nails look neat. A manicure that isn’t relaxing is a waste of time and money.

We should all have such problems …

Spring is in the hair

Today it is raining and my hair is doing its best Hermione Granger impression. Okay, let's face it, Hagrid. I am very angry about this because I recently spend a considerable amount of money having a keratin treatment designed specifically to de-frizz my hair. Harumph.

I must be a slow learner. Over the years I have tried absolutely every style and potion to tame my unmanageable tresses. As a young girl, I had the boy cut, then the pudding bowl, followed by the Sassoon, the Lady Di, the John Taylor (in orange, because I used Sun-In, although I claimed that I hadn't), the Madonna and, on one very unfortunate occasion, a mullet (skillet?). I have tried gels, mousses, leave-in conditioners, mayonnaise, and washing my hair less often.

In recent years I have kept it longish hoping that the weight would pull it into submission but it is basically the same hair, just longer. So I tried the keratin ‘miracle’ treatment. I had model hair for a day, greasy, lank hair for two days, then back to Brillo and complaining about said steel wool.

“Oh, the keratin treatment is such a misnomer!” cried one helpful eavesdropper, “What you have to do is ... (Yes? Oh yes? Oh yes? What? What? WHAT???!!!!!). Go to the salon twice a week and have it blown out.”

Oh, is THAT all?! Who has the time? I guess I'll return to my old faithful: the ponytail. Besides, a scrunchie is SO much cheaper.

Brace Yourself

What if I told you there was a product that could make you look and feel like a tweenager while also helping you lose weight? You’d want in, right?

Not so fast, my friend.

My miracle is also my mortification: Braces. Orthodontia. Tinsel teeth.

As part of a larger plan to try and embrace the inexorable approach of a four in my tens column, I am fixing some crowding in my mouth that has gotten worse over time. So far, it has not been fun. There’s the physical pain of the braces themselves— the pressure in my jaw, the raw skin inside my lip— and then there’s the mental toll.

First of all, it’s kind of embarrassing to be the only adult unaccompanied by a child in the orthodontist’s waiting room-- my minority status (further) driven home by the fact that the TVs suspended from the ceiling to distract me from all the tools and fingers in my mouth were tuned to Phineas and Ferb.

And I had to have a tooth removed, which has resulted in a hillbilly look that drove one friend to coin the (loving, I’m sure) nickname Mountain Dew. Flossing has become a Herculean task involving special floss and a fair amount of time. But that’s okay-- I can’t really eat anything because it feels weird and I don’t want stuff to get caught in my Jan Brady grill.

Which brings me back to where I started. I look like a misplaced middle-school student and I’m dropping weight like crazy. You in?

Warming Up

All winter long I miss my summer clothes. Day after day it’s the same story: sweater, jeans, boots. Oh sure, I might change it up here and there and wear—gasp!—cords; but, really, by the end of December I’m practically on auto-pilot. Sweater, jeans, boots.

But, what’s this? It was 70 degrees here the other day. I raced to bust out the flip flops. And then I was like, wait-- what the hell did I wear all last summer? After spending 25 minutes trying to find something, ANYTHING, to put on my body, I had the same wake-up call that I have every spring: the one nice thing about my winter wardrobe is that it hides a multitude of sins (muffin top, lazy shaving habits and scary toes, to name a few). Ugh. And it all looks even better with pasty white skin. The groundhog would see me, go snowblind, and stumble back into his hole.

So, I got my pedicure, my waxing, and a new diet plan (deets on that to come). I pulled out the bins of cute dresses and skirts and tops (how I missed you black Carve from-poolside-to-dinner-out dress…). Presto. I’m all geared up for warm weather.

The only problem is that we’re back to 50 degrees. Yup. Sweater, jeans, boots. That’s okay. It’s coming. And I’m ready. I do love summer.