When I was a kid, my mom had a cousin that was always surprised. She wasn’t actually surprised; her eyebrows just made her look that way. She drew them on each morning with the cosmetic equivalent of a Dixon Ticonderoga pencil and while I’m sure she thought herself to be the poor man’s Dolly Parton (she had huge hooters she liked to display.) she looked more like a stunned Muppet.
In addition to her cosmetic prowess, Eyebrow Ellie (Not her real name because my mother is already going to kill me for this so the least I can do is change the name.) also made some bold follicular choices. She sported frosted tips a good ten years after frosted tips had fallen by the wayside with the rest of Iowa’s fashion elite. She also enjoyed a solid beehive twenty years post trend. Couple all of this with those eyebrows and the fact that her family’s lifestyle back then considered “unkempt” would now make a fantastic episode of Hoarders and it was no wonder Eyebrow Ellie and the clan weren’t invited to Thanksgiving Dinner.
I give you this tale of Eyebrow Ellie because due to this past week’s fashion mishaps, I fear those genes are not as far removed as I’d hoped. It all started with some eyeliner…
For three days I’d been using a new eyeliner completely unaware of the horrors I was unleashing on each person who looked me in the eye. I assumed I’d purchased black eyeliner. I assumed that when the label said “darkest midnight” that meant black much like “gravel” means gray in nail polish or “blush” means pink in lip gloss. I also assumed that if my husband, the Turk, saw his middle-aged wife walking around with turquoise blue lines across her eyelids, he might let her know. As I learned in 7th grade, the first three letters of assume spell ass.
As I returned from my run the other day, (Ok, it’s mostly a walk now because I’m old and fat with bad knees but in my heart I’m running so I will continue to call it a run.) I was about to do a quick touch-up before running off to do errands. As I looked in the mirror, I was struck – what in the hell are those turquoise blue lines and what is that blue crap running down my face? I dabbed and dabbed and it wouldn’t budge. Suddenly I was a suburban mom with a prison tattoo dripping from my eyes. I knew that 2 hours prior I had applied black lines before applying black mascara. What I didn’t know was that those black lines were only black until they dried and then they became as blue as a peacock’s ass.
I quickly whipped out the container and read the bottom. “Darkest Midnight” it read on the bottom, but then with the power of my bifocals I saw that third word…”blue” There on the bottom of the tube in letters bold enough for an old broad to read with her bifocals, it said Darkest Midnight Blue. I’ll be damned. For three days I’d been walking around in this lie and not one person thought to tell me.
I flashed back to 6th grade when I tried pink eyeshadow and it took me nearly a week before I realized my trendy new make-up make me look like I had pinkeye. Why didn’t someone tell me pink make-up was for lips and cheeks only? It’s understandable to commit make-up errors when you’re 12 and new to the process but make-up faux pas deep into one’s 40s was just embarrassing. The Eyebrow Ellie genes were obviously bubbling deep within.
Fast-forward three days. I finally replaced my trendy turquoise eyeliner and was feeling good. The only thing I needed was a little hair trim and I would be ready to take on Naomi Campbell for diva dujour. Being new in town, I had no choice but to take a shot in the dark.
“What will we be doing today?” the chirpy stylist who bore a striking resemblance to a 7th grader asked as she strangled me with the cape.
“I just need a couple inches off the bottom. Blunt cut. Nothing fancy.” I’m a low- maintenance gal who requires low maintenance hair. I believe I spent my life’s worth of hair styling hours back in the 80’s when I washed, dried, crimped, curled, teased then sprayed for hours each morning.
“How about some layers or feathering?” She asked, eager to try out her obviously newly acquired skills.
“Nah, I’m cool. Just the trim.”
The newbie hairdresser proceed to spray so much water onto my hair that I began to drip. She attached no less than 75 clips to section out my hair and combed with enough force to delouse me if needed. (PS-Totally not needed. My worst nightmare is a lice infestation.) This was where I should’ve left. This was where a sane or vain woman would’ve whipped off that cape and fled. But after those years in Turkey I am well versed in horrific salon experiences so I decided to roll the dice.
The rookie kuaffor began to cut…and cut…and cut until soon my shoulder length hair was up to my chin. I tried to be cool. I tried to be mature but somehow my mouth didn’t get the message. “I’m good. Just stop!” I blurted out.
“Oh.” She seemed surprised. “That’s good?”
“Let’s just say it’s done.” I confirmed. “But can you dry it? I look like I just got out of the shower.”
The noob missed my insult and began to dry my obscenely thick hair on cool with the strength of a 90 year-old. After a few minutes, she stopped the machine and confidently said, “There we go. All done.”
It seemed this new stylist and the rest of humanity have different concepts of the idea of dry but I needed out so I fled, leaving a trail of drippings across the parking lot.
Looking in the car mirror while trying to dry my locks via car heater, I muttered, “At least it’s not as bad as the time they gave me the Victoria Beckham cut in Turkey.” (Full-disclosure, that was the time period where they gave everyone the Victoria Beckham and it looked horrible on everyone…except Victoria Beckham.) But that’s when it happened. It wasn’t as bad. It was worse. Sliding my glasses on and smoothing my shorter-than-chin- length bob I realized how bad it was. I’d been forced into the Velma zone.
A surly, know-it-all, brunet with horn-rimmed glasses and a little beef on her thighs – much like yours truly- lives in a dangerous spot when wearing a bob. The slightest bit too short and you go from avant-garde to straight up Velma from Scooby Doo. Lest we forget, Velma wasn’t the hot one. Though she saved their asses repeatedly, nobody liked Velma and now, thanks to the new girl at the hair salon, I’d been Velmaed. The only positive I saw in this situation was that at least I wasn’t Velma with turquois eye-liner.
On the brighter side, if my boys need me to draw on prison tattoos for Halloween I’m all set. I have a few nasty eyeliners to use up. And as for me, I’m just one orange turtleneck away from a fantastic Halloween costume. Perhaps I can use Eyebrow Ellie’s genes for good.
Laughter Is Better Than Prozac 