The Price for Beauty
Beauty Has its Price Getting Implemented
Yesterday, I had my hair beutified. Now what does that mean? Well, as an African American woman, I define it as making an appointment at my favorite beautician, then waiting an extra 40 minutes even though I made the appointment last week. I sit and I wait to have my hair washed and then dried with an extra-hot flaming-heat blowtorch-dryer. I then sit and wait an extra 15 to 20 minutes and then am directed to another chair-as if the first one was not suitable for styling, but yet a warning. Nonetheless, I sit and watch the beautician apply gunk to my hair, grab additional combs and styling brushes, teasing devices, along with more styling-gunk and more flame to detonate the hairstyle. And then 1 hour and 45 minutes later, ta-da, I am beutified! Simple? Yes. It was worth my time and $125 as I walk out of the salon and watch old men gawk and stare. Although my scalp is still burning, my ego is pumped as the old men whistle at me as well as their dogs in the nearby park. But the dogs are anxious; jumping around and then chasing the fire engine. Too bad they missed the fire on top of my head. I thought, whoever said it is better to be pissed off than pissed on, was not walking around with a fire on their head and dogs running loosely to urine on fire hydrants in lieu of my hair.
I ignore the compounded-tingly-sensation yet open sores in my hot, painful scalp. Men need to understand that we women go through complete burning hell to look good.
After the blowtorch torture, I bypass the rinky-dink stores and drive to a retail franchise to purchase non-chip fingernail polish. Could you tell I was a glutton for punishment? While there, I purchase facial cleanser and other items that would only be used once and then saved until dehydrated in the bottom of the bottle. Next year, when I’m invited to the party of the year, I hope to consider going to the cheaper outlets to buy unnecessary products. If not, I would be sure to apply water in an attempt to revive what was meant to be preserved or placed in a time capsule.
With my fiery head and tortured wallet, I am at the end of the line in my grocery store buying pain reliever.
That night, I slept in a fashion that only sistas or women with class would understand: I recline on my left side with my left palm adjusting my swollen scalp. Throughout the night, I may have given my failing wrist a break, thereby switching to my right side. If my head should slip out of my palm, I would gently pat my head to make sure the style stayed in place. Of course, my eyes would remain closed, as I would do anything to alleviate swollen-eye-bags to match a swollen head. (Good thing I went to bed at 7:00PM.)
The next morning, I tried to focus on my chores before getting ready for the party of the year. With the pain ever present, but reduced swelling, I was able to clean part of the house but adhere to every need of my owner a.ka. my dog, D. Queen.
Hours passed when I had finished complying with my dog’s demands. It was now time for a need of my own. One must take into account that all I wanted to do was to make myself feel and smell better. There I was in my bathroom partially dressed, as I certainly was not expecting company. I was preparing myself for my shower routine. Now, I’m so sure that most people just get into the shower, bathe two or three times and hop out. But, no, not me. I have a routine to adhere to, it is extremely important, and a must-have that I do it or everything in my life will fail. Ok, now, that is extreme, just my day, or is it my psyche that goes haywire.
There I am shaping myself for what others can complete in a matter of minutes. One would think that with the increased prices of water and other public utilities that I would try to get this done in less than 5 minutes. No one would know ‘cept for me. Well, not only me, but also everyone else who stands within 5 feet of my person. Most people do not know this, and I would certainly hope that this isn’t shared with anyone. But, you see, over the years, I had developed a minor, sometimes severe chronic illness, which causes me to sweat like a rhino in 100-degree heat. Well, although I often looked in the mirror at my naked body, it would come into view that I had the frame of a large beast. Nonetheless, the grotesqueries had been with me for over 30-plus years, I had not intentions on attempting to change now.
I looked in the mirror and wondered how well my makeup would stick to my face because only inches above it was very irritated. I tossed the shower mat into the bottom of the tub and reached for my beauty bar. Who moved it? While searching, I accidentally broke a nail, thus chipping my non-chip very expensive fingernail polish. If only my husband would not move things that should not be of interest to him. Besides, wasn’t it he who thought it was a great idea for us to share the same bathroom? Hmmm, perhaps I should teach him a lesson by using his tools.
I went to his special tool drawer, removed his crazy glue, and thought about not putting it back where I found it. I unearthed the mucilage in a package that had been opened. I took the glue out and squeezed the tube just lightly. Hmmm, nothing came out. Drats. I opened the main opening and saw that the seal had not been broken. I reached for a pin and slightly pierced through the foil. Ah. I replaced the lid and unscrewed the tip of the tube, slightly applied pressure to the tube and waited for about one and ½ seconds, or less. The glue gushed out unto my fingers and the countertop. Immediately, I reached for a towel and wiped the porcelain along with some of my fingers.
When I thought the danger was over, I picked up the tube, applied the glue to the nail of my thumb, and attempted to replace the cap. With the glue still on my thumb and forefinger, I kept my coolness when holding on to the open glue machine thingy. Through all of the craziness of the crazy glue, I had glued two of my fingers together. I couldn’t get them apart! I began to panic, which brought back the pain to my skinless-scalp. Lawd! I thought about calling the man who promised to honor, obey, and do everything I say, but he was out picking up my dress from the cleaners. The next thought, was to call 911, but because I was partially dressed and peering as though my fingers were throwing gang signs, I feared that it was not the best thing; at least not at the moment.
I hurried into the bedroom, retrieved some fingernail polish remover, and poured it on my fingers. I tried to yank-stretch my fingers apart, but as the advertisement on the glue tube says, "Instantly bonds," that was not about to happen. With my burning scalp, I had no idea that I would even think or consider reading the package. However, it states, "this product should be kept out of the reach of children, avoid eye or mucous, contact" – along with some other useless small print. There were multiple warnings on this small wachamacallit. (There were other explicates I could assume to utter.) I peered at the crazy glue warnings. The words were small yet firm (no pun here). In such a panic-emergency, my eyes glanced over some of the words, but what I can gather, the tinny tiny warning of words, calmly stated the following:
Yesterday, I had my hair beutified. Now what does that mean? Well, as an African American woman, I define it as making an appointment at my favorite beautician, then waiting an extra 40 minutes even though I made the appointment last week. I sit and I wait to have my hair washed and then dried with an extra-hot flaming-heat blowtorch-dryer. I then sit and wait an extra 15 to 20 minutes and then am directed to another chair-as if the first one was not suitable for styling, but yet a warning. Nonetheless, I sit and watch the beautician apply gunk to my hair, grab additional combs and styling brushes, teasing devices, along with more styling-gunk and more flame to detonate the hairstyle. And then 1 hour and 45 minutes later, ta-da, I am beutified! Simple? Yes. It was worth my time and $125 as I walk out of the salon and watch old men gawk and stare. Although my scalp is still burning, my ego is pumped as the old men whistle at me as well as their dogs in the nearby park. But the dogs are anxious; jumping around and then chasing the fire engine. Too bad they missed the fire on top of my head. I thought, whoever said it is better to be pissed off than pissed on, was not walking around with a fire on their head and dogs running loosely to urine on fire hydrants in lieu of my hair.
I ignore the compounded-tingly-sensation yet open sores in my hot, painful scalp. Men need to understand that we women go through complete burning hell to look good.
After the blowtorch torture, I bypass the rinky-dink stores and drive to a retail franchise to purchase non-chip fingernail polish. Could you tell I was a glutton for punishment? While there, I purchase facial cleanser and other items that would only be used once and then saved until dehydrated in the bottom of the bottle. Next year, when I’m invited to the party of the year, I hope to consider going to the cheaper outlets to buy unnecessary products. If not, I would be sure to apply water in an attempt to revive what was meant to be preserved or placed in a time capsule.
With my fiery head and tortured wallet, I am at the end of the line in my grocery store buying pain reliever.
That night, I slept in a fashion that only sistas or women with class would understand: I recline on my left side with my left palm adjusting my swollen scalp. Throughout the night, I may have given my failing wrist a break, thereby switching to my right side. If my head should slip out of my palm, I would gently pat my head to make sure the style stayed in place. Of course, my eyes would remain closed, as I would do anything to alleviate swollen-eye-bags to match a swollen head. (Good thing I went to bed at 7:00PM.)
The next morning, I tried to focus on my chores before getting ready for the party of the year. With the pain ever present, but reduced swelling, I was able to clean part of the house but adhere to every need of my owner a.ka. my dog, D. Queen.
Hours passed when I had finished complying with my dog’s demands. It was now time for a need of my own. One must take into account that all I wanted to do was to make myself feel and smell better. There I was in my bathroom partially dressed, as I certainly was not expecting company. I was preparing myself for my shower routine. Now, I’m so sure that most people just get into the shower, bathe two or three times and hop out. But, no, not me. I have a routine to adhere to, it is extremely important, and a must-have that I do it or everything in my life will fail. Ok, now, that is extreme, just my day, or is it my psyche that goes haywire.
There I am shaping myself for what others can complete in a matter of minutes. One would think that with the increased prices of water and other public utilities that I would try to get this done in less than 5 minutes. No one would know ‘cept for me. Well, not only me, but also everyone else who stands within 5 feet of my person. Most people do not know this, and I would certainly hope that this isn’t shared with anyone. But, you see, over the years, I had developed a minor, sometimes severe chronic illness, which causes me to sweat like a rhino in 100-degree heat. Well, although I often looked in the mirror at my naked body, it would come into view that I had the frame of a large beast. Nonetheless, the grotesqueries had been with me for over 30-plus years, I had not intentions on attempting to change now.
I looked in the mirror and wondered how well my makeup would stick to my face because only inches above it was very irritated. I tossed the shower mat into the bottom of the tub and reached for my beauty bar. Who moved it? While searching, I accidentally broke a nail, thus chipping my non-chip very expensive fingernail polish. If only my husband would not move things that should not be of interest to him. Besides, wasn’t it he who thought it was a great idea for us to share the same bathroom? Hmmm, perhaps I should teach him a lesson by using his tools.
I went to his special tool drawer, removed his crazy glue, and thought about not putting it back where I found it. I unearthed the mucilage in a package that had been opened. I took the glue out and squeezed the tube just lightly. Hmmm, nothing came out. Drats. I opened the main opening and saw that the seal had not been broken. I reached for a pin and slightly pierced through the foil. Ah. I replaced the lid and unscrewed the tip of the tube, slightly applied pressure to the tube and waited for about one and ½ seconds, or less. The glue gushed out unto my fingers and the countertop. Immediately, I reached for a towel and wiped the porcelain along with some of my fingers.
When I thought the danger was over, I picked up the tube, applied the glue to the nail of my thumb, and attempted to replace the cap. With the glue still on my thumb and forefinger, I kept my coolness when holding on to the open glue machine thingy. Through all of the craziness of the crazy glue, I had glued two of my fingers together. I couldn’t get them apart! I began to panic, which brought back the pain to my skinless-scalp. Lawd! I thought about calling the man who promised to honor, obey, and do everything I say, but he was out picking up my dress from the cleaners. The next thought, was to call 911, but because I was partially dressed and peering as though my fingers were throwing gang signs, I feared that it was not the best thing; at least not at the moment.
I hurried into the bedroom, retrieved some fingernail polish remover, and poured it on my fingers. I tried to yank-stretch my fingers apart, but as the advertisement on the glue tube says, "Instantly bonds," that was not about to happen. With my burning scalp, I had no idea that I would even think or consider reading the package. However, it states, "this product should be kept out of the reach of children, avoid eye or mucous, contact" – along with some other useless small print. There were multiple warnings on this small wachamacallit. (There were other explicates I could assume to utter.) I peered at the crazy glue warnings. The words were small yet firm (no pun here). In such a panic-emergency, my eyes glanced over some of the words, but what I can gather, the tinny tiny warning of words, calmly stated the following:
- If you are over the age of 21, please do not consider yourself an adult.
- Consult a man who can read as well as follows instructions. (No, not just any instructions, but THESE instructions.)
- Consult a man who actually follows directions and actually knows what the consequences are for using this product - Even if he made the mistake of gluing his hands to his face or other body parts in the past.
- Once a man has made the mistake of misusing this product, it is considered trial and error, however, he is certainly certified, authorized and bonded (no pun intended), to make use of this product. However, MUST be done with supervision of the maker of this product, three doctors, and two lawyers.
- Before making use of this product, make sure you have your wife’s permission to use her fingernail polish remover. Or, better yet, purchase your own fingernail polish remover or some other strong smelling glue-removing device.
- Before making use of this product, make sure all pets that you wish to own after today, are removed from the immediate area. If not avoid the humane society legalities by making sure that any pet identification is removed from the deceased.
- Prior to using this product, make sure 911 is in speed dial.
- If you are just stupid enough to glue your body parts together, then have enough sense to pray to the good Lord. Asking Him to shine His ever-loving light on the idiot who just had to use this product improperly and without the certified supervision, and/or the help of a smart minor.
- Continue with prayer while soaking a q-tip in some fingernail polish remover and GENTLY pry the source apart.
- If you decide to skip some of these instructions, but read the very last one, yell to the top of your lungs in hopes that the EMT’s will hear you.
**** ****
Oh lawddddd, the paramedics just left my home. Oh my, for those of you who witnessed this near "fatal for my dog" who was staring at me event, I wonder how will I ever show my face in public again. Oh, and for those that missed it, I thank God that you did not miss much. The neighbors came out and were staring and pointing at my partially dressed body. Just a horrible time to kickoff the holiday season among other things.
Now, I am literally stuck with the embarrassment of my neighbors and glue residue. And to top it off, my scalp hurts!
©Keeba Smith
Hankered Writer and Feared Compressor
K Smith is a columnist for Black Denver Speaks, an author, and social issues commentator KSmith023@yahoo.com
posted by Keeba Smith | 8:46 PM
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