Nail art

I’ve slowly but surely turned into a fuddy duddy, a finger wagger of the first degree. I don’t like exposed bra straps and still believe in slips. I think hair colors not found in nature are stupid (I’m looking at you, Nicole Richie and Kelly Osbourne). And I find nail art to be like nails on my beauty chalkboard.

I prefer short nails in one color, often Black Onyx or Russian Navy. I don’t like talons that have been whittled down to the point where they could pick a lock. And I certainly don’t like nails with crazy designs and different colors.

My distain stems from several reasons. One, fingernail designs and colors can skew trashy, like Hello Kitty just got hired at the Bunny Ranch or Tara Reid, well, just Tara Reid.

And I know nail art is anything but cheap, unless you’re using the press-on variety. I rarely paint my nails because it chips so fast. Getting your favorite team’s logo or a complicated basketweave pattern on your fingertips just seems like an expensive venture for such as short lifespan. I’d rather put that money in my pocket, not on my hand.

And if you’re doing it at home, it invariably looks sloppy unless you’re ambidextrous and detail-oriented. You start out with the best of intentions and bottles of pink, green, and yellow polish and wind up looking like a crazy colorblind person wearing a botched craft project.

And I finally put my finger on it: the biggest reason that I turn away from these manic-cures is that they pull focus. I want people to look at me, not my clothes, accessories, and beauty choices. I’m not a vehicle for miniature portraits, landscapes, and abstracts; I am the work of art. My manicure doesn’t make me interesting; it just makes me polished.

Old guy facelifts

It’s hard to watch any of the Kardashian divorce coverage. It’s not because Kim’s stunt disgusts me or that I think there’s no there there. It’s because of Bruce Jenner. 

I remember the ’76 Olympics. I remember Jenner taking a victory lap after winning the decathalon, fitting during a Bicentennial Year. Proud to be an American, I ate a lot of Wheaties with Jenner on the box.

Now, I sort of want to throw up my breakfast when I see Jenner doddering around the Kardashian klan. He looks like the grim reaper, the skin of his face pulled tightly over cheekbones and implants. And he’s not alone. Michael Douglas, Paul McCartney, and Steven Tyler are also part of the cryptkeeper club, not content to leave well enough alone and age gracefully, let alone move their face. These dudes are starting to look like ladies, and not in a good way. I’d punch them in the face, but I might shatter them.

(photo: celebritysmackblog.com)

Lipgloss containers

We always want what we can’t have, and what I want right now is that last dollop of lip gloss in the tube, just out of reach of my wand. No matter how I scrape the inside of the container, I can’t quite get enough to slick on my smacker.

What happens next is far from pretty.

It’s a little thing, really, but it bugs the shizz out of me. I pay good money for my shimmery tube of sexy (MAC’s Viva Glam V Lipglass, FYI) and I want every last drop of allure out of it. Whether it’s a tube with an application wand, a squeeze tube, or a bullet of lipstick, there’s always goo that goes to waste. Please come up with a new package for my smooch smack so we can kiss and make up.

(photo: dailymakeover.com)

Crunchy hair

We always want what we don’t have. Curly-haired vixens always want to kick their corkscrews to the curb in favor of stick-straight hair, while those of us with only a hint of a limp wave want undulating, Keri Russell-like locks of love.

We spray, rub, and massage curl-enhancing unguents into our manes. We scrunch. We dry with a diffuser. And voilà! We achieve the follicular stuff of which pre-Raphaelite dreams are made. One problem: we could blind a passerby with our crunchy curls. More post- than pre-Perseus Medusa, our hair is a mass of stone-cold locks.

Put down the can, jar, and bottle and learn to love yourself, limp hair and all. You could poke an eye out.

(photo: omgihavethat.blogspot.com)

Salon smocks

A spa or salon is generally supposed to make you feel serene, zen, pampered, beautiful.

At least I expect this every time I walk through the doors, and then it quickly goes to shit. I become agitated and feel like a tub o’ lady lard.

The problem? The chintzy, flimsy smock I’m invariably expected to wear. While I’m a busty gal and currently a few pounds over my fighting weight, I always hope that the salon's robe is going to cover my ass, not to mention my glorious ta-tas.

Not so much. I’m expected to cloak myself in a black or iridescent flame-retarDONT kimono-type dealio, “cinched” with a thin fabric tie. Aside from being wildly unflattering (and yes, cold), the robe gapes before I even leave the dressing room, causing me to clutch at my chest in hopes of avoiding a Janet Jackson moment.

Add some snaps and buy a few bigger robes, you cheap fucks, before I flash my fist at you and smack your smock back to Asia, from where I'm sure you ordered it. Namaste.

(photo: bshtextiles.com)

Curling iron burns

I’ve always wanted what I can’t have, and this certainly applies to my hair texture.

It started when I was 13. After an unfortunate attempt to rock a Dorothy Hamill wedge, I turned to the perm. In a word, oy. To amp up the foxy, I got a barrel curling iron to roll my bangs into a totally rad forehead awning…which I needed to cover up the burns I got every month or so from standing too close to the fire.

I eventually turned away from the 80s and curly hair and longed for stick-straight hair.

Enter the flat iron. Now, I smooth my locks and tamp down my cowlicks. In the process, I manage to regularly sear my skin, branding myself a dumbass. I currently have a mark on my neck that looks like Bill Compton has been snacking on my carotid artery. Call me crazy, but grown-ass women shouldn’t have vampire hickeys. Since I’m not going to embrace my natural beauty any time soon, Conair needs to invent an iron that doesn’t leave a mark of lame. In the meantime, I'm growing my hair out so I should be able to cover my cattle brand.

(photo: protechdesigns.net)

Hair extensions*

I blame Paris Hilton. Thanks to her, a whole generation of skanks and trophy wives with French tips and tennis bracelets have embraced a culture of fake. They’ve embraced hair extensions.

Hair has become an accessory, like a pair of earrings or shoes, that you can just don and doff at will. Hair used to be a gal’s crowning glory; now it’s just a stringy hat.

It used to be that people would hide the artificial, be it boobs, a tan, or hair. Bragging rights came from things being real. While Crystal Gayle’s hair could have been used to garrotte her, do you think she’d be caught dead with extensions? Her long hair was noteworthy because it was real.

Now Britney is shaving her head during a psychotic break and then getting terrible extensions knotted to her stubble. She isn’t fooling anyone and she doesn’t give a rat’s ass, which, come to think of it, is sort of what her hair looks like. Danielle Staub got beaded extensions for the current season of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. When Ashley pulled her hair at a country club, the defense was “I pulled her extensions so technically I didn’t touch her.” Fair enough. If you put in locks long enough to be a lever, be prepared for someone to pull it.

Back away from the Jessica Simpson clip-in hairdon’t and work with what you’ve got. Short hair? Now, that’s hot. For reals.

(photo: jenniferlew.blogspot.com)

*This post only applies to white women. I’m totally down with weaves. And I have no beef with wigs.

Beach makeup and jewelry

As the temperatures soar, I beeline to the beach. But instead of cooling off, my blood really starts to boil when I spot tantards, tricked out in full-on makeup and their entire jewelry box. Even if you happen to be a Kardashian sister or are filming a reality show, back away from the waterproof eyeliner and the gold bangles. (And if you are Snooki, start jackhammering that shit off before I do it for you.)

Wearing the complete cosmetic cornucopia—foundation, blush, bronzer, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, lipliner, lipstick—is going to clog your pores, particularly if you add sunscreen into the mix. And when you wear a tangle of necklaces or a fistful of rings, you’re adding tan lines, dulling your baubles, and risking loss or damage.

Oh, and you look fekking dumb. You look like you’re trying too hard. Frankly, you look desperate. Sorry to put sand in your Spandex, but the beach is a place to chill and let your hair down. It’s not the place to show off your new Shimmer Brick and tennis bracelet.

Step away from the MAC and the Maybelline, and leave the ghetto gold back at the beach house. Real beach bunnies have the confidence to embrace the elements and their natural beauty. I learned that from Baywatch.

(photo: inquisitr.com)

Chin whiskers

It’s hard enough accepting the gray hairs that are sprouting like unwelcome weeds amongst the chestnut crop of my hair. But the indignity of age marches south like Sherman, settling on my chin in the form of the occasional whisker.

For such a plucky word, whiskers are mortifying. I used to run into them once in a blue moon when I felt something amiss while stroking my chin. Now I studiously examine my chin whenever I’m washing my face, hoping to nip a new whisker in the bud. They probably aren’t noticeable to anyone other than me, but who the hell cares? I don’t want to acknowledge that my hormones are serving me up a side dish of crone to go with my aging gracefully entrée.

It may be natural, but it’s just not right.

Instead of taking it on the chin like the juicy 40-something gal that I am, I am going to keep patrolling my face for any signs of a prickly chin weed. And then I’m going to mow that motherplucker down any way I can. To paraphrase that old adage, the grass is always greener on the other side…of a laser hair removal treatment.

(photo: thestuff.nakatomiinc.com)

Lotion nubs

They’re a little thing, really. It shouldn’t bug me when I pick a lotion scab off a bottle top.

But it does.

It shouldn’t chafe when I rub a dollop of cream onto my skin, only to pick out the hardened little piece and flick it away.

But it does.

In fact, it chaps my cocoa-buttered, lanolin-ed, Vitamin-E hide. I want to emulsify those crusty little upstart nubbins with my emollient knuckles until they go back where they belong: into the bottle with the well-behaved lotion.

Crystal Gayle hair

I love long hair, I really do, but a gal shouldn’t have to worry about her drain-clogging coif clearing the toilet seat when she drops trou. When locks are skimming the floor, it’s not a hairstyle as much as a chairstyle. Tie the ends to a tree and relax in your portable hammock.

Calf- or knee-length hair ain’t pretty—there's a good two feet of split ends going on down there—and neither are your deep-seeded neuroses. You’re wearing your insecurity, not on your sleeve, but on your head. Put your follicular folly in a ponytail, snip it off, and ship it off to Locks of Love. If you don’t, my fist will make your brown eyes black and blue.

(photo: babble.com)

Katie Couric’s eyelashes

If eyes are the window to the soul, then Katie’s eyelashes are big-ass vertical blinds. She has so much mascara gooped on them that it looks as if she has three black-brown spikes over each eye, which makes it impossible for Sarah Palin or anyone else to see eye-to-eye with this anc-her.

Comb your hair, please, even if it’s the sparse ones over your peepers. Those clumps make me want to lash out, and perhaps give you another kind of black eye. I like you, Katie, I really do, but your eyelashes, which were once a Today No, are now a CBMess.

Jennifer Love Hewitt’s Ghost Whisperer fake lashes are on deck.

(Photo: cartoonstock.com)

Kiddie pageants

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.

(photo: berkshirefinearts.com)

Tyra’s tutorials

“There’s a way of being a corpse while still having life in your eyes. It’s the difference between THIS (blank dead fish stare) and THIS (squinty dead fish stare). Do you see the difference?”

Oh, Professor Banks, you’re so wise! If only there was a Nobel Prize for FIERCENESS, you'd be picking up your medal in Stockholm.

A longtime fan of ANTM, I’m always amused by the number of times during panel this preacher teacher schools a fucktard on how to work her face. It reminds me of the opthalmologist’s office. “Which is better? A or B? A or B?” Um, is this a trick question? Are you playing a Helen Keller joke on me? They’re both exactly the same!

Tyra, where would we be without your deep insights into the industry? We’d show up at go-sees without our heels. We’d mouth off to the photographer. We’d ask the designer to give us his clothing samples. We’d miss shoots because of a little case of swine flu. But most tragic of all, we’d never learn how to smile with our eyes…and we’d have to pack our bags and go home.

Before we go, in the event you need a refresher course, let me pull out a dead fish and slap your money-maker with it. This is what a punched-in-the-face face looks like. This is what a punched-in-the-face face looks with smiling eyes. See the difference?

(photo: fourfour.typepad.com)