Tuesday, September 13, 2005

If you don't feel it fake it til you do.


I remember being told that at a hair salon in Texas when I was a little kid. I was there getting my very first press and curl (Ok minor divergence here) I just tried finding a how-to or what is guide for press and curl for the napturally challenged and couldn't find one. Weird) anyhow.


So we're all on the same page. And this may vary but here's what I remember.


A press and curl (press n curl etc) is when you have natural (often virgin-meaning never been relaxed) hair you have your hair washed, conditioned then blow dried. After blow drying your hair is combed with a hot comb (or these days I imagine people use flat irons) to flat straight shinyness. You avoid water and humidity like the plague and go the next week.


So yes as I was saying at the hair salon the lady doing my hair was explaining to me that sometimes even if you don't feel fabulous act fabulous and then you'll realize all of a sudden you feel fabulous.


At that salon I felt fabulous. I remember feeling a distinct sense of honor that I got to sit under the dryers and in the big chair with the grown up ladies. I was fascinated by them. (You can see the seeds of my love of all things beauty related were sown here). I painted my nails and toenails, asked for but was denied having my eyebrows shaped. I learned the differences in different kinds of emery boards. I loved the stink of the hair salon. Perms, colors, singed hair. I loved it all.


I loved those Dallas society women with their big hair and strange clothes. There was nothing better to me than sitting in the sweltering pink universe with my glamourous and beautiful Grandma and her beautiful and glamourous friends.


It was thrilling to me. In ways I can't even quite describe.


I got older and felt that way again the first time I hung around drag queens. They were a couple who my Mom worked with at Seagalley (Does anyone remember those restaurants aside from me? My Mom was in the commercials). I loved them. They'd have me at their house and dress me up in sequins and feathers. They made me feel like a doll in the best way possible.


They also bought me my first wig. It was a huge Peg Bundy style wig.





I LOVED that thing. I'd put it on, along with this red slinky dress my Mom had and a pair of her snakeskin pumps. Then of course make up. At six I did better make up than most grown women. I'd sing and put on fashion shows.


When my drag friends went to the Fireman's Ball and won a contest one of them had borrowed my wig. They returned it perfumed, set and with a goody bag of little lip glosses and things.


And I got older still.


As I got older I fell in love with my Mom's stylist. She was a model at the time and a spokeshead for a hair care products line. I called her stylist Ramone because I thought he looked like a Ramone. I have no clue what his name was. He'd let me into his enormous make up kit while he cut my Mom's hair. I never made a mess.


So you see how I got to where I am now.


When we moved I threw out probably at least 5 pounds worth of make up. Not because it was outdated but because I didn't feel like moving it.


So back to my original point. (If you're still reading give yourself a gold star because I'm positively sure this is really boring.)


Given my emotional wibbliness of late I decided today to look good even though I'm not feeling so hot. I relaxed my hair on Sunday and left conditioner in it overnight. (That is the BEST fucking thing in the world, when I rinsed last night after my shower my hair felt like silk) and am wearing my ponytail in a cute updo. I put make up on.


I'm wearing a mostly cute outfit. Black slacks, black tank top and my black hoody. Black mules.


And yes I actually am feeling better especially since I got several compliments.


What can I say I'm vain.


Ok this entry has gone on for too long and I've yet to share something. So I'm going to end it for now, make myself a cuppa and probably try to convince my guts to stop with the rumbling.


Goodnight Sally


PS....Send lotion my feet are ashy.

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