It has been quite a week. Regular-ish updates to resume shortly.
In other news: I am participating in the 826 Valencia 5-Minute Volunteer Reading Series next week. I'm tired of suffering for my art. It's your turn.* The event is at Amnesia on Tuesday, 7pm. To be followed by an excursion to the monthly emo night, because as we all know, nothing says "party" like listening to Sunny Day Real Estate. See you then.
*Good writers borrow, great writers steal. (Thanks, AS.)
In other news: I am participating in the 826 Valencia 5-Minute Volunteer Reading Series next week. I'm tired of suffering for my art. It's your turn.* The event is at Amnesia on Tuesday, 7pm. To be followed by an excursion to the monthly emo night, because as we all know, nothing says "party" like listening to Sunny Day Real Estate. See you then.
*Good writers borrow, great writers steal. (Thanks, AS.)
Labels: sunny day real estate, vanity
I am possibly the worst beauty editor in the world because certain grooming details are of little concern to me. At a few events, I have been the only one without filler in her face or a Botoxed brow. My nails are usually bare. I run screaming from any products with nanotechnology. Looking like a number one stunna takes too much time, money, and effort. Aside from my obsession with getting clear skin and a good haircut, I am content with half-assedly cleaning up to become a number two, or even three, stunna.
This lazy attitude extends to body hair. If you really want to make the average young woman squirm uncomfortably, all you need to do is whisper the phrase "hairy thighs." She will become self-conscious because body hair makes you an undateable wildebeast who will never have any friends. As a pre-teen, I had internalized this message and thought that if only I had smooth legs, an Esprit cotton tote, and a bra, I'd become the most popular girl in school.
Betty tried to stop me. "Don't start shaving," she said. "If you do, it'll come back darker." She was right, and for the first couple of years, I inspected every square inch of my legs to see if I'd missed any stubble. Not that anybody was looking, but if they did, they'd see plenty of cuts and raging razor burn... but no hair! That was the important part.
Suffice it to say that I did not become the most popular girl in school, and my dedication to hairless skin waned over the years. (It waxed once, too, but I couldn't get the stuff off my skin, and I walked around with a chunk of green goo on my knee for three days.) I resented being expected to de-fuzz on a near-daily basis, so I started doing so only when I felt like it. Wonder of wonders, nobody seemed to care. For all I know, they're calling me Chewbacca behind my back, but not to my face. And if I'm asked about any stubble, which is rare, I tell people I have bigger fish to fry. Because I do.
And yet... It makes me feel like a terrible feminist to admit this, but I've been conditioned to prefer the look and feel of smooth skin. I enjoy the sensation of a newly shaved leg swishing against the other like silk. But I remain too lazy to shave every day, and besides, have you seen how expensive those replacement razors are?
This is why yesterday, I found myself lying naked on a dentist-style chair while a pregnant woman slathered K-Y on various parts of my body. No, I have not started a career in niche porn. Instead, I have spent a month's rent on laser hair removal. It might seem ridiculous to do so, but honestly, this may be the best shallow decision I have ever made.
This is what a session is like. I go in, strip down except for a pair of sunglasses, and then the esthetician uses a little clipper to shave any hair to be zapped. From there, the KY goes on and the laser comes out. (I assume the KY is to make the laser glide along skin smoothly.) When the machine is ready, it makes a happy electronic burbling noise that suggests a sadistic streak.
People tell you that laser hair removal feels like the snap of a rubber band. That is inaccurate. It feels like a burning needle plunging into the skin. The pain lasts only a second, and it's much more tolerable after the skin has been iced, but a rubber band snap it is not. At least it goes quickly; the underarms take less than 10 minutes total. Over the next 10 days, the hair falls out.
The pricey painful process is worth it, though, because despite not shaving my underarms in a month, there's less peach fuzz than on a 13-year-old boy's upper lip. And that's after just one session! This makes ridiculously giddy, like I have somehow outsmarted biology. It also makes for boring reading, but again, trying to do something every day.
This lazy attitude extends to body hair. If you really want to make the average young woman squirm uncomfortably, all you need to do is whisper the phrase "hairy thighs." She will become self-conscious because body hair makes you an undateable wildebeast who will never have any friends. As a pre-teen, I had internalized this message and thought that if only I had smooth legs, an Esprit cotton tote, and a bra, I'd become the most popular girl in school.
Betty tried to stop me. "Don't start shaving," she said. "If you do, it'll come back darker." She was right, and for the first couple of years, I inspected every square inch of my legs to see if I'd missed any stubble. Not that anybody was looking, but if they did, they'd see plenty of cuts and raging razor burn... but no hair! That was the important part.
Suffice it to say that I did not become the most popular girl in school, and my dedication to hairless skin waned over the years. (It waxed once, too, but I couldn't get the stuff off my skin, and I walked around with a chunk of green goo on my knee for three days.) I resented being expected to de-fuzz on a near-daily basis, so I started doing so only when I felt like it. Wonder of wonders, nobody seemed to care. For all I know, they're calling me Chewbacca behind my back, but not to my face. And if I'm asked about any stubble, which is rare, I tell people I have bigger fish to fry. Because I do.
And yet... It makes me feel like a terrible feminist to admit this, but I've been conditioned to prefer the look and feel of smooth skin. I enjoy the sensation of a newly shaved leg swishing against the other like silk. But I remain too lazy to shave every day, and besides, have you seen how expensive those replacement razors are?
This is why yesterday, I found myself lying naked on a dentist-style chair while a pregnant woman slathered K-Y on various parts of my body. No, I have not started a career in niche porn. Instead, I have spent a month's rent on laser hair removal. It might seem ridiculous to do so, but honestly, this may be the best shallow decision I have ever made.
This is what a session is like. I go in, strip down except for a pair of sunglasses, and then the esthetician uses a little clipper to shave any hair to be zapped. From there, the KY goes on and the laser comes out. (I assume the KY is to make the laser glide along skin smoothly.) When the machine is ready, it makes a happy electronic burbling noise that suggests a sadistic streak.
People tell you that laser hair removal feels like the snap of a rubber band. That is inaccurate. It feels like a burning needle plunging into the skin. The pain lasts only a second, and it's much more tolerable after the skin has been iced, but a rubber band snap it is not. At least it goes quickly; the underarms take less than 10 minutes total. Over the next 10 days, the hair falls out.
The pricey painful process is worth it, though, because despite not shaving my underarms in a month, there's less peach fuzz than on a 13-year-old boy's upper lip. And that's after just one session! This makes ridiculously giddy, like I have somehow outsmarted biology. It also makes for boring reading, but again, trying to do something every day.
Labels: vanity
Some time ago, Mr. Bitner sent out a call for entries for a book he was editing. Bitner is one of the more inspiring characters I know, simply because he's always working on smart new projects. (Plus, we have this thing where we start each e-mail or phone call by saying each other's last name, which I enjoy.) Anyway, the book, Cassette From My Ex, will be out next week. My friends Vincent and Jen each have a piece in the book, as do I. It's a collection of stories of mix tapes from erstwhile loves, and if you are into music and/or tales of lost love, it should hold some appeal.
5. Red underpants
In junior high, a friend's cousin had a RED BRASSIERE. Whoa. I didn't know why a red bra was simultaneously fascinating and scary, but I knew it was too brazen for me to even consider. It took almost two decades for me to finally buy a red bra of my own, and even then I didn't want anything frilly or grossly Frederick's-y. Somehow, I lost the matching underpants in my move from Chicago to San Francisco. I fear they are decaying somewhere in a Nebraska Motel 6.
4. Koala bikini
As a child, I had a koala obsession. The photo albums are littered with photos of me hugging trees like a koala, wearing koala t-shirts, carrying around my stuffed koala teddy bear, and so on. When I was around five years old, I had a koala bikini. The top had googly-eyed koalas climbing the straps, which were made to look like vines. Ridiculous. I think it would be entertaining to still have this.
3. Various band t-shirts
I'm cheating here, but I wish I still had my Broken Hearts Are Blue shirt. It had a silk-screened print of this Johnny Marr photo, and it has deep sentimental value. Evan had it last and I'm guessing he burned it; the same goes for the Van Pelt tee that I miss. (Light blue, chopstick print, poly-cotton blend.) I also wish I had that great glow-in-the-dark Cold Cold Hearts tee, even though the band was not the best. And getting rid of this this too-small Indian Summer shirt was stupid.
2. Michigan Straight Edge t-shirt
We silk-screened these t-shirts in Andy's basement. They looked just like normal University of Michigan shirts, except instead of advertising our football allegiance or whatever, they said Michigan Straight Edge. Again, sentimental value and a reminder that making things yourself is more fun than buying stuff.
1. Bronze boots
When in Paris four years ago, I splurged on a pair of Repetto bronze ankle boots with a beautiful patina. They were the Kim Gordon of shoes. The longer I wore them, the more comfortable they became. They were hard to track down, because when I went to the Repetto boutique to find them, I said:
The shopgirl motioned to the wall of shoeboxes. "Oui, les boites sont la-bas," she said. Well, yes, I see the boxes, I thought. "Oui," I said. "Mais je cherche des boites..." and pieced together a few descriptions of the shoes I was looking for. She remained puzzled. And then she said, "Ah! Des bottes." My mistake! Boites is boxes. Bottes is boots. And now I know, and every time I'd put on those boots, I'd think of that day fondly. The heels are now worn-down and the soles have holes, but I cannot bear to get rid of them.
In junior high, a friend's cousin had a RED BRASSIERE. Whoa. I didn't know why a red bra was simultaneously fascinating and scary, but I knew it was too brazen for me to even consider. It took almost two decades for me to finally buy a red bra of my own, and even then I didn't want anything frilly or grossly Frederick's-y. Somehow, I lost the matching underpants in my move from Chicago to San Francisco. I fear they are decaying somewhere in a Nebraska Motel 6.
4. Koala bikini
As a child, I had a koala obsession. The photo albums are littered with photos of me hugging trees like a koala, wearing koala t-shirts, carrying around my stuffed koala teddy bear, and so on. When I was around five years old, I had a koala bikini. The top had googly-eyed koalas climbing the straps, which were made to look like vines. Ridiculous. I think it would be entertaining to still have this.
3. Various band t-shirts
I'm cheating here, but I wish I still had my Broken Hearts Are Blue shirt. It had a silk-screened print of this Johnny Marr photo, and it has deep sentimental value. Evan had it last and I'm guessing he burned it; the same goes for the Van Pelt tee that I miss. (Light blue, chopstick print, poly-cotton blend.) I also wish I had that great glow-in-the-dark Cold Cold Hearts tee, even though the band was not the best. And getting rid of this this too-small Indian Summer shirt was stupid.
2. Michigan Straight Edge t-shirt
We silk-screened these t-shirts in Andy's basement. They looked just like normal University of Michigan shirts, except instead of advertising our football allegiance or whatever, they said Michigan Straight Edge. Again, sentimental value and a reminder that making things yourself is more fun than buying stuff.
1. Bronze boots
When in Paris four years ago, I splurged on a pair of Repetto bronze ankle boots with a beautiful patina. They were the Kim Gordon of shoes. The longer I wore them, the more comfortable they became. They were hard to track down, because when I went to the Repetto boutique to find them, I said:
"Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. Je cherche des petit boites comme ça, en coleur or."
The shopgirl motioned to the wall of shoeboxes. "Oui, les boites sont la-bas," she said. Well, yes, I see the boxes, I thought. "Oui," I said. "Mais je cherche des boites..." and pieced together a few descriptions of the shoes I was looking for. She remained puzzled. And then she said, "Ah! Des bottes." My mistake! Boites is boxes. Bottes is boots. And now I know, and every time I'd put on those boots, I'd think of that day fondly. The heels are now worn-down and the soles have holes, but I cannot bear to get rid of them.
Labels: vanity
After three not-so-great haircuts in San Francisco — all of them from the alleged "best" salons in town — I am now going to become one of those awful, obnoxious people who doesn't get her hair cut in town. In Los Angeles, Christine Symonds at Warren-Tricomi gave me a snip that, no kidding, made me feel GIDDY. (See picture at right.) It was just what I wanted, a better version of me. I thought about flying to LA to have her cut it again, but not only is that environmentally awful, it's impractical, and besides, when do I have time?
So I went to yet another salon here in SF. This crappy cut from January was the worst so far, but this weekend's is the one that made me cry. Details are unimportant, but even after going back to have them fix it, it's uneven. And the only way to make it right is to go even shorter. I usually don't feel very attractive anyway, but now I feel even worse. I should have fled the salon the moment they mentioned that Devendra Banhart gets his hair cut there. If you need me, I'll just be hiding in my house for the next four months.
Labels: vanity, weird obsession with finding perfect haircut
Since leaving Chicago, one of the things I've missed—along with a decent brunch—is the talent of my hair stylist, Mitch, who works at Michael & Michael. He's great, he doesn't charge an arm and a leg, and he just knows how to read my style. Plus, he moved into an apartment across the street from me right before I left, and we were beginning to be buddies.
I have now gone to two of the fancy, written-up-in-Allure salons here, and, well, I think I may become one of those annoying people who winds up only getting haircuts when in New York. In October, I had a fantastic trim from Mordechai Alvow at Pashah. It looked great the day of the cut, and it grew out beautifully. Today, though, I realized that I was getting a bit mullety, so I made an appointment at Fancy Salon Place.
As you can see, it's not a bad cut per se. It's just not the most astounding one, you know? I think that when you spend three digits on a haircut—something I do not enjoy doing, and have never done before—it should make you feel like you have shampoo-commercial hair.
I have now gone to two of the fancy, written-up-in-Allure salons here, and, well, I think I may become one of those annoying people who winds up only getting haircuts when in New York. In October, I had a fantastic trim from Mordechai Alvow at Pashah. It looked great the day of the cut, and it grew out beautifully. Today, though, I realized that I was getting a bit mullety, so I made an appointment at Fancy Salon Place.
As you can see, it's not a bad cut per se. It's just not the most astounding one, you know? I think that when you spend three digits on a haircut—something I do not enjoy doing, and have never done before—it should make you feel like you have shampoo-commercial hair.
Labels: humiliating photographs, vanity, weird obsession with finding perfect haircut
