Bangs, fringe, breakage — whatever you call it, it'll fit in some butterfly clips.
I dragged our intern, Felicia, for another $20 shopping extravaganza this morning.
I wanted to make it extra-weird, and thought it was editorial genius to hit up the rhinestoned hair clip mecca, the eyeliner-by-the-pound superstore, surely one of the only places on earth where you can buy green mood lipsticks in packs of twelve: the Chinese imports store that I pass every day before descending into the downtown N/R subway cellar. The same dudes sit on the scaffolding in front, hollering at me every. single. day. I'm like, "Do you even have jobs? What do you do there on that scaffolding?? Who's on the other end of that Bluetooth?"
They're so mysterious! I can't help romanticizing our relationship... I feel like there's really something special there.
There they were, of course, perched upon the railing, as Felicia and I made our way inside the shop. I must admit, I was a little hurt to see that it was young Feleesh (as we refer to her) that they were a-hollering toward this time. I mean, how could they? She's, like, a baby. (She was totally eating it up--it was so gross.)
I immediately spiraled into round two of retail therapy for the month, digging through piles of butterfly clips, 12-for-$7 lipsticks, and My Little Pony-esque clip-in extensions.
"I heard these are great! You should try them and maybe write a review for the site!" I said while shoving some questionable single-serving face masks into Felicia's hands. (Stealing my men...)
I had everything ready to go before one of the shopkeepers chastised us for taking photos! I mean, this was after, like, fifteen minutes of openly doing this.
"Do you have a shop? Like an Etsy?" he asked.
"Uh... no." (Ugh, I HATE when Etsy-ers sell this stuff like it's vintage!) "I'm writing for a website. I'm writing about your stuff. It's cute."
"Oh like a Tumblr?"
I side-eyed to Felicia so hard while she snort-laughed, "No. It's its own website. Kind of like a beauty blog."
"Oh, you don't work for Vice, do you?" he perked up a bit.
I laughed. The only people I know who work for Vice are complete dinguses. (That's my friend, Dan, Vice's equipment manager. One evening he tried to convince me that a large battery was composed of several smaller batteries inside. Like, it was pregnant with a litter baby AAA's. Refuting his claims, he took to it with an axe. He axed a battery open. In case you were wondering, I was right. Also: battery acid!)
"NO I DON'T WORK FOR VICE," I said sternly, all, like, "Yo, get to the point."
He told us that we had to GTFO because, after 20 precious work minutes of effing around his shop, we had to have a tax ID to buy anything. BOGUS.
So I took my $20 and bought a cheap pink wig and some hair clips from the shop down the street. No tax ID required, and the lady didn't know Vice from the Toll House cookie recipe on the back of a bag of chocolate chips.
I look terrible in wigs, and after trimming the bangs and chopping up the ends a bit, I realized I was getting dangerously close to seapunk territory. Add this to the list of looks I can't pull off.
No, I'm not wearing this out. And considered my buzz killed, 'cause I totally wasted $17 today. Let's vent about what beauty purchase you regret most.