Ah, the stankyness that is my over-the-counter beauty enhancement routine. I got
the kids into bed at EIGHT! Woooo! EIGHT! This calls for a celebration, right? I
decided that I needed to spruce up the old mare a bit, since the evening was
stretched out before me, and my hubs is up to his eyeballs in a new computer
game of some sort or other. A quick inspection of my head reveals 1/2 inch of
regrowth. Break out the gas masks, baby. Tonight? We dye. I decide that a glass
of wine is in order, what with my aching wrist and swollen ankle and all. I
discover that operating a cork screw is beyond my gimp wrist's ability. I decide
maybe drinking and dyeing is a bad idea and head to the bathroom. Now, whoever
designed our house was insane, because we have no ventilation, save a weenie fan
in the ceiling. This little fan whirs and sputters in cycles, but it doesn't
ventilate. Not even close. It mocks me with its noise. Yea, though I am supposed
to remove the foulness, I do not. Behold, the bathroom grows ever stinkier. Even
now you flap the door, yet I will not remove this stench. Throwing caution, and
probably all the cilia in my nose and throat to the wind, I crack open the box
and prepare to become a Natural Highlights! Extra Shiny! Now with BOTANICAL
Conditioners! shade by the name of "Iced Mocha." Can I just confess how much I
love cosmetic names? I really do. They are so optimistic and evocative. My
eyeshadow? "South Beach." Love my lipstick? It's "Sunset." Makes you wanna make
out with me, huh? I know. Me too. While mixing all the ingredients, at one point
I looked into the mirror and noticed I had one of the bottles dangling from my
teeth. Now I know where the kids get it from. My hubs walks in midway through
the squirting and "massaging" part, and exited quickly, sputtering and coughing.
"That stuff is poison! Poison!" He threw over his shoulder between coughs. My
eyes were starting to water quite a bit, but finally, the icing of my head was
complete. I've got goo on my head, and 25 minutes to kill. Hmmmm, I'll paint my
toenails. I locate my bottle of "Candy Apple" red nail polish and attack my
toes. The weepy eyes are now stinging from the combined fumes, so I flap the
door a bit. It occurs to me that I could mosey out to the bedroom to do this. On
my way out, I decide that with the next 20 minutes, I need to shape my eyebrows.
I grab my tweezers and sit on the floor in front of our hall mirror. Since I
painted my nails, I have to sit with my feet flat so that I don't mess up the
finish, and I grow increasingly frustrated at my attempts to improve my
eyebrows. I end up with one thicker than the other, and other with no arch.
Whatever. The nails are dry, the goo on my head has done its work. I give up on
the brows and hit the shower. 15 minutes later, I emerge, like a butterfly from
its chrysalis. My head smells like a new car. You gotta love it.