Everything I've Ever Done For Vanity

The first time I ever felt gorgeous was after eating a popsicle that stained my lips a deep red when I was just five years old. The popsicle had melted faster than I could eat it, so my chin, hands and clothes were stained red and sticky too, but I was so pleased with myself I didn’t even notice that. I was hardly tall enough to see myself over the sink in the bathroom mirror yet, so I stood on my tippy toes, puckering and pouting like a horny grownup. I was hooked. A little later on, when my mom came at me with a wet rag to wash it off, I knew she was just jealous. 

My mother enforced modesty in our household, and scolded me any time I was caught trying to be pretty, so I couldn’t just practice whenever I wanted. Since I didn’t have my own bedroom yet, I had to wait until the sister I shared with went to soccer, or on the rare occasion that no one else in my family of eight was using the bathroom. During these moments of alone time, I began to discover and collect as many beauty hacks as I could. 

When I arched at the waist and tilted my head far enough back, I could have hair that touched my bum like Daryl Hannah from the movie Splash. When I folded round stickers into the shape of a cone, I could fake that I had pointy long nails. I obviously didn’t wear a bra yet, but I stuffed my shirt with socks and turned to the side to see what having huge breasts was like. It was my favorite look so far, but I was just getting started.

When I was nine I stole a razor from my mother’s bathroom cabinet and dry shaved my legs, leaving random patches of hair hoping she wouldn’t notice and ground me. Anywhere I had shaved needed bandaids because I’d cut myself so much. It was worth it as I shimmied around, half smooth legged, half hairy, and half bandaged in my room. 

I took a few years off to explore a butch phase so I could fit in with all the boys my age that made up the majority of my East Tennessee neighborhood. I wore baggy tee shirts with Umbro brand shorts and sneakers, and had my hair in a low ponytail every day. I did sit ups and pushups in the basement, and jogged around the neighborhood to show off how athletic and tough I was. I claimed one day I’d join the Army. Once I picked up a wild snake by the tail with my bare hands in front of everyone. It flung itself upwards into a U shape and bit me on the forearm. After that, for the most part, I went back to being a girl.

When I was in sixth grade my mom took me to Clair’s to get my ears pierced. They got infected almost immediately but I didn’t complain for fear she’d make me take them out to heal and they’d close up forever. That summer, my friends from the swimming pool club and I sprayed lemon juice in our hair to make it even blonder. I studied my sister’s Seventeen magazines for other interesting research.

Speaking of my three sisters, I raided their rooms whenever they were out, lifting nail polish, lip gloss and eyeshadow palettes. With the special tiny curling iron my sister used only on her bangs, I learned how to put ringlets in my hair. I washed everything off and returned it all exactly where it went before anyone noticed, so no one ever caught me and I was able to keep doing it up until the day they each went to college. 

When I moved to Utah in eighth grade, the girls my age were like if Glamour Shots from the mall could walk, talk and attend the Mormon church on Sundays. They were already going to tanning beds, getting acrylic nails with white tips, and coming to school with full hair and makeup. Within a week they showed me how to do all that stuff, too. I also learned how to tease my hair to make it look bigger. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house like that, but I always figured out a way because it was so important to me. By the time I was a sophomore in high school I was wearing white eyeliner, lip gloss that stuck to my hair when the wind blew, and lotion with chunks of glitter in it that I can unfortunately still smell as I type this.

For prom I got my own set of fake nails and a second degree sunburn in the tanning beds after I was made fun of for being pasty white by the most popular girl in school. Later in life she would find out from Twenty-Three And Me that she’s not Danish, but a Mexican, and I would be diagnosed with skin cancer. We’re still great friends.

Every morning at 6am my Junior year of high school, I repeatedly flat ironed each section of my hair until it was perfect. Healthwise, it would take years to recover from this. I reapplied my makeup in-between classes and wore lip liner that was too dark for no reason. I pierced my ears a second time with a needle and an ice cube after I’d watched some of the goth girls I was secretly friends with get kicked out of our sewing class for doing it. My senior year, I forged my age at the Jersey Shore and got my bellybutton pierced behind my moms back. I was grounded from using the car for two weeks when some puritan saw it in my American History class and told on me. I wish I remembered her name so I could take her down, but I’m not sure that I ever knew it in the first place.

I went to cosmetology school and all things vanity became a free for all. I had access to unlimited hair color, beauty supplies, and was surrounded by dozens of brave women who wanted to practice on each other. I got my nose pierced with a tiny diamond and colored my hair like Xtina Aguilera from the Dirrty feat Redman music video. It was black underneath and platinum on top, except the platinum was more of a yellow, orange, and white gingham pattern. I also pierced the webbing on my hand between my thumb and index finger thinking I'd start a new trend. It bled randomly and never healed.

At 19 I cut my hair into the short spiky layered look now associated with speaking to the manager, a small town beauty school rite of passage. I grew it back as soon as I could. There are no pictures. There never was. 

I moved to New York and became an assistant at a fancy salon in midtown. Everyone who worked there stopped what they were doing to help tone down my chunky amateur highlights, give me a proper cut, and show me how to style my hair for the natural wavy texture that I didn’t even know I had. Observing all the elegant people in the city, I took notes to learn the art of spending ten times the money while appearing to have a more subtle beauty routine. 

A decade later, when I was thirty years old, that’s when things really started to get interesting. I flew to Park City, Utah and spent six thousand dollars to go under general anesthesia for the only time in my life so I could get fake boobs. If you judge me for this, shame on you, but if you never even noticed, thanks. My model friend introduced me to spray tans, which looked more natural and less streaky than self tanning lotions, but my crisp white bed sheets would never be the same. 

For my thirty-fifth birthday, one of my favorite clients tipped me with a free Dysport treatment at her med-spa practice in Union Square, just like when a drug dealer gives out free samples. I’ve been a client of hers ever since. She gave me cheek and lip fillers to reduce wrinkles around my mouth, but I saw horror stories online of lumpiness, so I never did either again. I did buy a five pack of Emface and I see her once a year for Fraxel.

Speaking of lasers, I’ve gotten them for hair and tattoo removal, sun damage, scar, vein and fine line minimizing, collagen boosting, and brightening. I don’t wear glasses, but you could probably still convince me to get Lasik anyway. I’d let a laser do practically anything it wants to me because I <3 them so very much.

The most painful treatment I’ve ever done was Micro needling and PRP, a process where they stab you all over the face with a thousand needles before drawing blood from your arm, spinning it around in a machine until it turns a creamy yellow, and smearing it back onto your skin to make you look young. I don’t know how somebody in the world came up with this, but it smooths, tightens, and lifts, and it’s the only procedure I’ve ever admitted to hurting. 

There’s a woman named Donna who gives me colonics for an instant flat stomach in a pinch, and a black market doctor who prescribed me Ozempic a year ago. It worked but I won't do it again because my hair fell out and I’m thin enough without it. Last year I got a facial with Nightingale droppings shipped from Korea. It’s illegal in America and that’s what makes it so good.

I’ve perfected the at-home manicure and do my own nails once each week, filing the ends into the shape of a coffin. They look so nice painted a bright glossy red, that for one year I smoked cigarettes solely based on aesthetic. 

In the mornings I spend half an hour getting ready, including the time it takes to shower and check my face for new wrinkles. I do my makeup in five minutes, let my hair dry naturally, and then I select an outfit to set the mood. I don’t give one single thought to the way I look again and I go about the entire rest of the day being creative, charitable and wise.