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Beauty and The Becca

See what I did there? Did you see? Did you?

matted hair baby

I saved this picture as “matted baby”. I feel uneasy about that.

Let me preface this by saying I was inspired to write this post after reading Melanie Crutchfield’s How to Be Beautiful. If girls pooped I probably would have shat myself laughing when I read it. I’d award her with free underwear if that wasn’t a weird thing to do. If I hadn’t given up Photoshop so quickly because I sucked at it  my free Photoshop trial hadn’t expired, I too would use it to make my own funny image additions here on my blog.

My mother is and always was into fashion, beauty products, make-up, and stuff of similar categories. This is why I do not understand how I was so beauticiously challenged growing up. I don’t remember her ever teaching me how to do things like put on my make-up, shave my legs, or pluck my eyebrows. I don’t think this is because she didn’t want to or try to, I was just too stubborn to wait for her to decide that I was old enough. I can’t blame her. I know she just wanted to see me as young and innocent forever, but come on, I was walking around with so much blonde hair on my middle school gams that it looked like Cousin It was humping my leg.

Because of my impatience, and therefore, lack of instruction and proper guidance, I had one too many beauty fails as an awkward 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, and 16-year-old girl.

For starters, I was initially too afraid to shave using an actual razor, so I resorted to Nair. If you like to bathe in acid you should try it. Nair should be illegal.

Once I conquered my fear of the razor, I became adversely razor-happy and went on a razor binge. It started out innocently enough. You see, my hair is naturally curly (had you fooled didn’t I?). This means I had what I call whispies (also known as fly-aways) framing my face. I had a ton of them, and I wanted them gone. So, what did I do? I shaved my fucking hair-line. When that worked out dreadfully, of course I didn’t hesitate to moved on to my eyebrows. I am still trying to grow them back to their full volume to this day. Read the rest of this entry

A Tangerine in a Bowl Full of Oranges

orange nail polish

What a lovely shade of Cheetoh! (Google Images)

I know it is hard to believe, but occasionally I do enjoy doing girly things like getting my nails done. I’m sure my nail lady thinks I am boring because I never dare let acrylic anywhere near me, and I almost always get a neutral color job. I also absolutely won’t opt for shellac. My fingernails are nails for heaven’s sake, not hard wood floors.

Homely nails or not, the experience is anything but plain for me. I get approximately three hours to just sit and do nothing… except maybe explain why I don’t have a boyfriend to “Jenny” or fight off the tickle reflex that leaves me praying I won’t accidentally punt my pedicurist. I am physically incapable of doing so much nothing anywhere else.

There is something about beauty salons that make people itch to talk. It is usually the customers who gossip away while Jenny and the gang nod silently every so often to feign interest. This is the case for all employees at my nail salon except for one particular manicuring machine named Song. She is a talker. Not only does she talk, but she is actually quite the joker. She can find a punch line in any situation. Naturally, I adore her.

Just last week I was letting my feet boil soak while waiting for my pedicurist to come give my feet dirty looks, when Song appeared and began working on the woman’s feet next to me. If you could call them feet. The particularly large woman was there for some relaxation with her two gal pals positioned in the chairs surrounding her. She was on her way to get married, and to add to the excitement, so were both of her friends. It turns out they were having a three-way-wedding, thus Song had three brides’ feet on her hands. Are you lost in extremities yet?

You would think Song would be a bit nervous given the task, and it didn’t help that the brides-to-be were nothing short of bossy, but miraculously she was on top of her game. She wasn’t missing a beat or a single hangnail for that matter. She even managed to successfully locate a “tangerine” colored nail polish at one of the bridezilla’s adamant requests. Meanwhile, I was busy debating whether or not I needed to translate my color request into a fruit name equivalent.

Song finished off her pedicure/comedy routine with a nice quip about not getting the grooms mixed up at the altar and sent the three walking traffic cones on their peachy way. With my feet freed and my toes looking exactly as they did when I arrived, I headed for the door. Before I left,  I slipped Song a ten-dollar bill accompanied by a grin and a wink.

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