I don’t know which is worse: the pageants, the parents, or the glassy-eyed kids. Wait, yes I do: it’s the parents.
How any parent can dye or highlight their little girl’s naturally preternatural locks boggles the mind. Women are forever trying to get an eight-year-old’s natural highlights and momthras are frying everything good and holy from these tiny heads. Momsters brush mascara onto baby lashes and glop up little rosebud lips with lip gloss, transforming their little rays of sunshine into Stepford toddlers. These kids can’t read Vogue yet, but they’re more high maintenance than Anna Wintour. I bet they could even teach me how to finally apply liquid eyeliner properly…
The pageants themselves are beyond low budget. They are usually held on a rickety stage with a sad backdrop that looks like it was made with a glue gun, glitter, and an asswagon of prayer. Stage mommies sit in the audience, miming their kid’s “talent” routine, while the little girl preens, dances, smiles, and jazz hands her way through a treacly patriotic number.
The ragtag judges eat this shit up. I want to beat this shit up. I want to deprogram the little spray-tanned ventriloquist dummies by herding them into a lil’ miss protection program. Here, in a home with no television or tiaras, their hair will return to a color in the neighborhood of what Mother Nature intended. They will play with crayons, not lip pencils, and draw outside the lines. They will sing along to Baby Einstein, rather than “(Hit Me) Baby One More Time.” The only Barbies in the house will be the ones manufactured by Mattel, not a mom from hell. And the mommies dearest, the ones who continue to maintain that they are just helping their daughters realize their dreams, will be beaten with a sack of those very same Barbie dolls while being forced to sing Aqua's "Barbie Girl" in a leotard. Being plastic isn't always fantastic.