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.

Lumbersexuals

Everything old is new again. When I think about the resurgence of canning and preserving or Michael Keaton’s performance in Birdman, I can get behind this.

But the lumbersexual isn’t content with honoring the past; he has to turn it into some artisanal, curated preciousness. Authenticity is swapped out for hipness. It’s not enough for a lumbersexual to find a favorite barbeque joint and lick his fingers in spicy bliss. He has to amass a carefully curated collection of regional hot sauces and a deep well of knowledge on the best way to smoke a pork shoulder. And then create a YouTube video demonstrating the process using his GoPro and Final Cut Pro.

How do you spot a lumbersexual, a subset of the modern hipster male? Well, if you live in Portland, just walk to the nearest corner. But for other regions of the country, a primer:

Above the waist, it’s all 1871 up in there. Looking at the lumbersexual, I’m transported to the Big Woods, tapping maple trees with the Ingalls family. Beards are so long that they look like levers. Just pull on one and watch the lumbersexual turn into a human nutcracker, one that could, in his facial hair, actually store nuts—organic roasted nuts dusted with curried sea salt, obvs.

Then there’s the plaid. Don’t get me wrong; as a former Catholic schoolgirl, I cotton to plaid the way Taylor Swift seeks out high-waisted swimsuits. But I don’t want to wear it six days a week, only swapping it out on laundry day for that graphic tee that says “I shot the serif”. 

Below the waist, the lumbersexual is completely of the moment, outfitted either in spendy jeans so skinny he had to channel his inner teenage girl, laying on the floor to get them zipped, or in saggy-ass Goodwill denim that gives his suspenders a raison d’être.

Either way, it’s not attractive or alluring. I don’t want to get wit you or even hang with you; I just want you to direct me to the nearest barn raising or the best creek for gold-panning. So get on your fixed-gear bike—the one with no brakes—and head for the hills. Find someone else to talk to about your Whiskeytown bootlegs. Roll up your flannel shirt sleeve and show off your forearm tattoo of the butcher cuts of a pig to someone who cares about the difference between hocks and trotters, because I’m way too busy plucking, shaving, and waxing. Hair removal never gets old.

(photo: http://www.telegraph.co.uk)

Long toenails

Riddle me this, ladyhawke:

Are you trying to pick up small rodents during flight?

Because that’s the only reason I can imagine that you’re clicking along with those talons looping over your flip-flops like a grounded raptor.

Isn’t there a point where life and practicality might suggest that you whittle those can-openers off? Like, for instance, when putting on a closed-toe shoe? Or your basic bipedal walking?

Clip, saw, file, chew, and otherwise hack those claws off or I’m going to have to sic an actual bird of prey on your ungroomed hooves. Their beaks can clip those nails in no time.

(photo: longtoenails.org)

Women who play with their hair

You are amazing. Smart, stylish, a polished public speaker who demands attention with your passion, insight and—wait!—what were you were saying? I was distracted by your lustrous locks…and not in a good way.

You had me wrapped around your little finger, but I was swapped out for a lock of your hair. I see woman after woman playing with her hair like a nervous tic, tucking it repeatedly behind an hair, twirling it around a finger, pulling long locks from one shoulder to another, as if in an attempt to find a best side. You’re not Mariah Carey and your hair isn’t a binkie. If you continue to use your bob as a security blanket, I’m going to have to split…and you’re going to have a shitload of split ends. I speak the truth.

(photo: whatwomenlike.net)

White guys with dreadlocks

Hey you! Yeah, you with the dreadlock fountain sprouting from your head. Guess what, Medusa? You’re not cool or interesting or indie. You’re dirty. With dreads, you look like Sideshow Bob, not Bob Marley. Cut that shit off and stop co-opting someone else’s heritage and style.

Note: While I’m not crazy about dreads on any Caucasian, it’s the dudes I am most annoyed at.

(photo: mobyrebuttal.blogspot.com)

Handlebar moustaches

Back in the days of Victorian gents and Wild West outlaws, dudes waxed the ends of their bushy moustaches until they could poke a cowpoke in the eye. While an excellent way to mask a questionable cold sore, these crumb-catchers and coat-hangers have no place in modern society. We now have ample access to napkins, so I have to deduce that you’re trying to make a follicular style statement.

You are definitely making a statement, Wyatt Twerp, and it doesn’t say “steampunk.” It says, “steaming pile of oh HELL no.” Trim that fucker down into a lustrous Magnum, PI or I'm going to go Sweeney Todd with a straightedge. Now, that's steampunk.

And don't think you're off the hair hook, mutton chop sideburns, I'm coming for you next.

(photo: 39x21.blogspot.com)

Face tattoos

I have nothing against tattoos or the people who have them. Really. But I do have to question someone’s intellect or blood alcohol content when they put their face under the needle (and I’m not talking about Botox).

A face tattoo doesn’t read “cool,” “edgy,” or “intimidating.” Nope. You know an inked-up face is really saying? “Unemployable.” Unless you’re a Maori warrior or Mike Tyson (who can pretty much do whatever he wants to his mug), a facial tat indicates that you’re independently wealthy and don’t need a job…or that you really, really, really like checkers.

(photo: findtattoodesigns.com)

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.

Excessive fragrance

Back in the day, when fresh water and showerheads were a scarce commodity or nonexistent, folks covered their stank with aggressive oils and unguents that were slightly less overwhelming than the B.O. that comes from weeks of schvitzing and lord knows what else.

God bless the modern age and God bless the bathtub. We don’t have to mask our natural funk with a bucket of Estée Lauder’s newest eau de parfum. I don’t need to know you were in a room…three days after you bombed it with your Prince Matchabelli mushroom cloud. Your Wind Song stays on my mind…and my scent receptors.

Scent is like lingerie; only a chosen few (i.e. not your neighborhood) should have the privilege of experiencing it. A stripper once told me that she wears scented powder when she performs because as her body heats up, the scent is released and only those close to her can smell the faint fragrance. Hot.

Not so hot? Dudes doused in cologne. I can smell you too, preening across the room in your spendy CREED aftershave. I was assaulted by Drakkar Noir for pretty much all of the 80s. While all the alcohol in your cologne can be used to sterilize a wound or stoke a fire, it leaves me cold.

(photo: pocketchange.become.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)

Justin Bieber’s Hair

Javier Bardem was a badass in No Country for Old Men despite that ridiculous hairdo. Tim Urban is hoping his mop top will distract America, if not the judges, on American Idol. Zac Efron looks prettier than Vanessa Hudgens with his ladylocks. Let’s face it: a bowl cut only looks cool on Dorothy Hamill (but then, anything would look cool on Dorothy Hamill).

Justin, dear, sweet, chipmunk-cheeked Justin, are you trying to cover your face so tween girls won’t realize that you’re an animated Disney character? Are you hiding a ginormous zit on your forehead? Did you get tired of holding up a sign that said, “Kick my ass”?

Baby, cut your hair. One time. It’s like the teenage version of a combover. I’m beginning to think “Never Let You Go” isn’t about an 8^th grader, but your bangs.

(photo: wikipedia.com)

Little boys with long hair

True story: Dave Matthews walked into our neighborhood coffee shop with his kid. As I was pouring cream into my Americano, I asked him what her name was.

Oops.

In his Dave Matthewsey way, he muttered, “He’s a boy.” Then he kindly added, “He is wearing sort of a girly hoodie.” It was lavender. As I commented on how evolved his son was, I was thinking that it wasn’t the hoodie that confused me. It was his long hair.

August—that’s his name—had silky blond locks. They weren’t Ryder Robinson long but they were mos def in need of a haircut.

I understand the need to keep your little one a baby as long as possible. However, babies don’t have hair long enough to dust their playrooms. Most don’t have any hair at all. Maybe you were wishing for a girl. Maybe you really, really like Bo Bice. Whatever the case, this look is not making the cut. It drives me as crazy as Gymboree on a Saturday morning.

Set your kid on a path to proper grooming and gender identity, and chop his mop. Otherwise, I might have to crash into you or send some fire ants marching on your ass.

(photo: knockedupcelebs.com)

Dingleberries

I don't like ’em and I don't want to see them, on people or on animated bears. Frankly, dingleberries irk my shit. If this baby bear is smart enough to be potty trained, he's smart enough to lose the scat and the TP wads hanging from his bear hair. If the little Mensa member can't take care of business, I think the only choice is to wax the bear's bum until it's completely bare.

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)

Pajamas as outerwear

While I’d like to think of life as one big pillow fight, it’s not. It’s not a slumber party, and the frozen food section is not Maria Greene’s basement, as much as I sometimes wish it were. So why are you wearing pajamas and slippers as you’re reaching for those Totino’s Pizza Rolls? Put them back and put some clothes on. I think you can find some in aisle 10.

Dressing has become more and more casual as we slip on flip-flops and pull on fleece hoodies for all sorts of occasions. But nightgowns, flannel PJs, and bathrobes cross the Casual Friday line and step into crazy, depressed, or another state of mind that might demand medication or, at the very least, light therapy.

Admit it: you’ve thrown in the towel. You might as well just curl up in the fetal position under a Snuggie and give up. I won’t kick you while you’re down but do me a favor and keep your crazy behind closed (perhaps locked) doors. If you don’t, I’m going to surprise you in the bedding aisle and whack you with a big-ass pillow until you wake the fuck up and change out of your crib clothes.

(photo: reidaboutit.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)

Old-guy ponytails

Dude, don’t you know that size—or in this case, length—doesn’t matter?

When I see someone sporting a tired, scraggly ponytail, I have to muster every bit of self-control not to whip out some scissors and cut off that last stand of I don’t know what. More frayed than a jute rope and with more split ends than Courtney Love 11 days into a psychotic break, I don’t get the point. Mullets at least have that “business in the front, party in the back” thing going on (but believe me, they are punchworthy too, which just goes to show how far down on the follicular food chain these limp locks are). What can you say about a man with a mangy ponyfail? Hippie in the front, dying hippie in the back? Often, the ponytail accompanies a balding pate, which, guess what?, isn’t fooling anyone. No amount of length on your last 134 strands will compensate for the loss of hair everywhere else on your dome.

Trust me, trust anyone other than your misguided, insecure sense of style and chop that napeworm off. You will look hip, not hippie, as though you exist on this side of the Millennium. And if you don’t tame the beast, I might not be so kind next time I happen upon you.

Makeover meltdowns

You’ve seen one of the shows: What Not to Wear. How Do I Look? America’s Next Top Model.

Chicks (and sometimes dudes) get a style makeover and then, to complete the transformation, they head to the hair chair.

Utter. Fucking. Meltdown.

All the gorgeous free clothes, pep talks, and newfound confidence fly out the window faster than you can say “split ends.” Some refuse to have their fried Crystal Gayle hair cut even an inch; others suffer silently, tears streaming down their face, while their Dynasty hair is transformed into something fashionable this side of the millennium. Others whine, complain, and can’t wait to hit their Hair Cuttery and get their ugly back.

I want to shove the cut locks down their goddamned throats. Last time I checked, hair grows back. Get over it. If you think your hair defines you, it probably does. And what it says is: This woman is hella-lame. Try losing your hair to cancer. You’re not dying. Suck it up: If you can’t cope with looking attractive, go home and get some ratty Jessica Simpson hair extensions and revert to your signature 1991 Dress Barn persona.

I don’t always take to an extreme haircut initially. But I squeeze and spray some styling product into what’s left, and rock the fuck out of my modern mullet. And I wait for it to grow out, like a big girl is supposed to do.

And don’t tell me that you can’t cut your hair because your man loves your long hair. Are you serious? Your dude will think that he’s cheating on you with a hot chick whose hair doesn't choke him during sex. And if a guy is turned off by a different hairstyle, your relationship has bigger problems than your bob.

Get a life. Get a hat.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/tracyrab/35322320/—I'm not suggesting this little one has had a hair meltdown yet; clearly, she's never been on a makeover show.)

Nicolas Cage’s hairline

Is Nic Cage honoring the eroding coastline of California? Did he melt a record and fit it over his melon? Are times so tough that this national treasure can’t afford a full head of plugs?

Add to ConHair’s freaky coif an increasingly gaunt face and you’ve got Skelator in a skullcap. I’m absolutely goonstruck looking at Hair-raising Arizona. No one’s forehead should end at the crown. Normally mild at heart, I have no choice but to take this hair yarmulke into my own hands. I’m going to face-off against Mr. Moppola and my weapon of choice is a straight razor. I’m shaving that shit old-school and landscaping the back of his head. It’ll be gone in 60 seconds.

(Note: This Letterman interview is a snooze but you can get an eyeful of Peggy Sue Got Hairried.)