Part of me thinks that I’m not totally qualified to write about beauty. First off, I smell bad. Perfume is just bottles full of lies and deceit; you don’t emit those odors naturally. (Next you’ll be telling me that bleachy-orange ombré just sprang from your trendy hair follicles.) Plus, I can’t choose not to smell you -- it’s olfactory assault. At the very least, it’s totally rude to drench yourself in perfume.
I bathe with such infrequency that I still have a faded reminder to wish Jane a happy birthday written on my left hand. Her birthday was eight days ago. Pro tip: Keep your social schedule from getting stale by only hitting up the bars whose stamps aren’t on your wrists from the previous week.
Alternate pro tip: Don’t go to lame-ass bars that stamp your wrists. Hanging out with teenagers is for teenagers and dudes that are into teenagers. I’ll talk about this at length in my next article, loosely involving washed-up juicehead ABC gum and Ash Wednesday. Excited?
And I disregard most other basic hygienic/beaut-i-mous upkeep like regularly brushing my teeth, shaving, not picking at my skin, getting my colored hair RE-colored and cut more than once a year. I don’t even own a Clarisonic. ¡Que horror!
It doesn’t help that I’m constantly surrounded by enablers! It took two whole weeks into my fancy, huge, important fashion internship, but eventually everybody there realized how cool I was. That’s two weeks of the hardest partying and least amount of sleep I’ve ever done or gotten. Ever. Culminating in having to excuse myself early from a meeting with THE EXTREMELY IMPORTANT president of the company so that I could barf, wipe the dried beer splatter(?) from last night’s pair of leather hot pants, turn my Tone Loc T-shirt around so that the tag was no longer tickling my throat above the neckband for all to see, and try to pee through the pain because I had a UTI on top of everything else.
Let me make it clear that this NEVER affected my work, I was seriously an A+ intern and loved working there. I’m not a total shithead, just kind of gross. In fact, super-important-highly-esteemed-president-dude was impressed with me for being the only intern with enough balls to ask a question during the meeting -- probably because I was still wasted. Plus, everybody kept telling me how cool my huge, bushy eyebrows and “smudgy” (really, just three-day-old) makeup looked! I resumed the not-plucking and non-trimming, and general complacence toward my health and appearance after that.
Also, I was incredibly ill for about three of those six months. Eventually, with a full face of cystic acne, I had to start taking baby steps to learn how to take care of myself again. (This happened after my weakened immune system and I fell down the ladder-like stairs in my sublet. My asshole roommate never came out of his room to see if I was OK.)
But the brows remain, as do multiple bad habits that surfaced from that magical, carefree time in my life. After the brows, I get the most compliments on my hair (which I never wash), and thirdly, my nails (which I never, ever cut).
Long nails are perfect because they are elegant and make it seem like you give a fuck, even if you didn’t really notice they’d grown that long until typing became strugglesome. They also make it harder to pop zits -- you don’t get proper leverage with longer lengths. They’re like baby proofing for your immature adult face. Until you break one, resulting in red, teeny, scabby scratch marks all over your body every morning because you’re too lazy to file the sharp edges; in that case, they’re the total opposite of baby proofing. Also, you should probably wait until you cut your nails to have children.
When I left for Seattle a couple of weeks ago, I had pearly-white talons nearing half an inch in growth. Usually while I’m there, I’m either with my dude or with these other dudes who have really beautiful, shiny, long hair like girls, and wear tight pants like girls, and sometimes just straight-up wear girls’ clothing but are not girls.
Then Friday came and I was (pity?) invited to my first ever Seattle chick party! All girls, no boys allowed! Girls are very complimentary to each other, and I know that these are genuine attempts at niceness. But, after a “My, what nice fingers you have!”-type compliment, I suddenly became all self-aware, like, “Shit. My nails are not only long, but janky as well!”
So I asked for some clippers and proceeded to trim them at this cool Seattle girl’s apartment, when one snapped and projectile-d into the eye-and-mouth region of another girl’s personal space. **face in palm**
Anyway, I was left with my current little ugly fucking baby-finger stubs. Not even these cool new “nail lingerie” strips and open-mouth posing could make my nubby fingers look sexy! (I can’t find these for sale online -- they’re L’Oreal purchased at CVS in Austin. So they’re not, like, exclusive and fancy NYC Duane Reade-type shit.)
So, for the sake of elegance and class, I bought a $5.99 value pack of plastic fake nails so that I could get into the nail art game and keep going with this beauty writer charade.
Nail art is super popular and THE ONLY way to become famous on the Instagram right now, unless you’re a Thai Princess-turned-Pop-Star or married to an NBA player. Please include all of your most secret tips in the comments.