Where's My Cape?

Things to remember next time I do runway modeling

So...not much going on here, except for MODELING IN A FASHION SHOW. I know, no one expected that, least of all me - mom-of-three-going-into-old-age-me. But, charity called and I am unable to resist an offer to walk a runway and have people do my hair and makeup. Completely defenseless against those offers. Heck, just the hair and makeup alone sold me. What?  I liked to be primped on. I am only a little bit girly.

There I was, one of only a handful of mere mortals (read: older, less glam real-people models) among very skinny very young very unbashful professional models. I watched them in our huge get-ready room show their walks while wearing their outfits thinking OMG - I am so ill-prepared for this.

But, really, I was unprepared. My only instructions were to show up at 3 and to have a pair of dress shoes. THAT'S IT. That is way too little info. Like what kind of dress shoes? What would I be wearing? What, praytell, should my underwear look like? These are all critical pieces of information that were left out of my memo.

The points were not moot since I was asked multiple times (accompanied by a look of disbelief/horror): What? You're not wearing a black strapless bra??? (Why no, why would I be?? Do I look like I received a memo about this?) And also: Do you have another pair of shoes? Wear anything but those shoes!!! (Please note I brought a lovely -or so I thought- pair of black satin sandal stilettos that had a strap across the toes and a strap running diagonally across the foot and around the ankle. They were lovely but apparently, ALL WRONG FOR FASHION SHOWS.) Mental note: next time I am walking the runway with real models, bring lots of shoes, including plain black pumps.

A runway coach of some kind walked me through the steps. He cracked me up (internally, because on the outside, I was very serious.). We did 8 steps down the runway, struck a couple of poses, walked halfway back. Did some slow motion pivot turns, walked back to the beginning of the runway, posed again, then down the steps. It was a lot to remember.

My hair got seriously curled and pinned up - it looked awesome and the hair stylist thought so too since she kept taking photos of it and grabbing her friends to look at my hair creation. My makeup was a bit extreme - like Extreme Makeover, but for faces. Holy face! I avoided mirrors.

I was supposed to only walk the runway with the other mortals...but last minute, was shooed up with the REAL MODELS for the opening act. As in ME + THEM. Ha! Can you say 'terrified?' My mortal friends were cheering me on everytime I looked over at them with a look of "help me! I'm going to die!" There was a gorgeous model in front of me who kept giving me pep talks - you will do great! Just breathe! BREATHE! She was exotic and gorgeous and kind. Before I knew it, the music was pumping and it was my turn. I took a gulp and the rest was kind of blur. Cameras snapping. All eyes on me. Crazy! But thrilling! It was over before I knew it (really only 30+ seconds of walking) but think it went well. Mortal friends told me I rocked it!

I got to change into another outfit and walk the runway again for the mortal special.

Honestly, I had a blast and a half. Total, total thrill. Now wondering whether I could ever get this kind of fix again...there must be a market for older, wider, shorter runway models right? If so, I'm there!

The red dress

There's dresses that you wear and then there's dresses that you desperately find occasions to wear. I am the recent proprietor of such a dress.

I. heart. this. dress.

So, I was cashing in on a gift certificate at Red Door, getting my toes done, and flipping through the latest issue of Lucky magazine. I'm not a regular reader of Lucky magazine or anything, but I do enjoy the occasional perusal in such low-brain-requiring activities. Well, Katy Perry was on the cover and looking gorgeous as always - wearing an amazing red dress. I could not stop looking at this dress! So drool-worthy. And, I imagined, in the way I often lust after beautiful clothes, that I must have this dress. Immediately.

Like the impulse buyer I am, I went home and directly proceeded to go online to neiman marcus, found the dress, and purchased it. (It was not cheap. Hence my self-imposed buying freeze until next season.)

I could not wait to wear it at an upcoming end-of-the-year party. At first, I worried it might be a bit much for conservative work types...then wore it anyway. It was a HIT.

 

So in love with that dress. The problem is that you can't just wear this dress to casual get togethers. You need serious events. The kinds of events I don't often get a chance to go to. Like glitzy cocktail parties and the like. My life is not nearly so glamorous.

Must. wear. again. But when?

Then, the husband was invited to an event involving a reception early this week with media types in a really cool setting which seems like it could be the closest to a this-red-dress activity in the forseeable future. But, kind of worried that I'll show up wearing this little number and everyone else will be in completely different conservative suit-type dresses, causing a fashion faux-pas incident. Do I risk it? Or stick to a more modest (and safe bet) little black dress?

(I know. There are much more serious problems in this world. I have much more serious problems/life changes - which I had hinted about here. But, glad to have such dilemmas to distract me from those.)

Navel gazing

I've written a lot about my belly button and the sadness I've felt over the years as it's been demoted from hot innie to depressed Old Man Umbilicus. My abdomen and waist used to be my favorite body part, actually, yet now it is dead last. I'm actually 10-15 lbs LIGHTER than I ever was before children (not counting the eating disorder days of yore where I looked like Lara Flynn Boyle/Skeletor/etc for a short time in college), and all of my former "problem parts" have become un-problems. (Not to say that I ever had serious problem parts - I've never had to be removed from my apartment with a bulldozer or anything, but relatively speaking here.) Also, please don't hate me for being lighter than before. I'm not sure what happened but it seems to correlate with being insanely busy and stopping regular exercise completely - go figure.

Which leaves the belly button area. After my first pregnancy, it was looking sadder but passable. After the second, it is a scene from a horror movie. It is SCARY.

In fact, Girl asked me one day recently what happened to my "hole." (Note: this took much time and energy for me to figure out exactly which hole she was referring to as she has difficulties with being specific, ever. Mildly disturbing.)

I decided that the navel ring must go back in. Ideally, I could find a navel ring that was floppy and wide and could cover the largest ab expanse possible. You know those huge gold medallions some people wear? What about something like that? Or a huge diamond-encrusted dollar sign? The larger the better.  The problem is that I took out my ring during the last pregnancy for obvious reasons and have not tried to cannalize that piercing since. Ouch.

So this weekend, I took it upon myself to make it patent again. I had flashbacks to that time in college where I stood in the tattoo/piercing parlor on Thames Street in Providence and a man with a shaved head and ripping biceps tattooed aplenty had me sit on the procedure chair and proceeded to pierce my belly button with a needle so large...and the searing burning pain involved...while my BFF watched with INTENT curiosity (she's now a doctor)...and it was done. I can't believe I did that. I'm such a chicken!

My piercing now was about 97% patent but that last 3% was not budging. After much awkwardness and forcible guidance, I got the ring through (ouch) and realized sadness of sadness, I've lost all tops to my navel rings. There was no way to fasten it. After all that work, I had a piece of metal sticking out of me, all pointy like, that would surely impale The Husband during a casual embrace or just fall out, if I didn't find something to secure it. I ALWAYS lose those fasteners, and in the past, had used a piece of an eraser in a pinch.

In true MacGyver style, I found the back clasp to a pin and clamped it over the end of the ring. Which means I have a clasp right now, protruding from my person. Hey, it works.

The Husband, though, doesn't understand why I care. Who cares? And if no one sees it (after I denied this was all in attempt to wear a bikini this season - um NO NEVER AGAIN), why would I even want to put a ring back in?

I told him that it meant something to me to feel beautiful, even if it was not a change that others would notice, and that *I* have to look at it all the time. I made the analogy to what if he had a supernumary nipple on his chest-wouldn't he like to have it taken care of it to not feel like a 3 nipple mutant person? He didn't think that was a good analogy.

Anyway, wondering if it's just a woman thing or maybe just a KC-woman-thing to even care. Is it just lack of body acceptance? Am I being unhealthy in my thinking?

But then I made a different analogy. It's like how women like wearing beautiful bras underneath their clothes, even when no one else is going to be seeing them- and how that can make you feel more confident and beautiful...I think that's true for some women.

In the meantime, waiting for the new navel ring (and fastener!) to arrive in the mail and bring a little dazzle to Old Man Umbilicus, for me.

Face disgrace

For my mother's birthday this year, I got her a massage at Red Door. I figured I could take her to the local one here during one of her visits. My original plan was to drop her off before the appointment and pick her up afterwards, but while making the appointment, this seemed silly. Why, I should get a service too to keep her company! I mean, she wouldn't know where to go or what to do! Why, of course, I will just get a facial.

It would be a sacrifice. But, I'm a great daughter.

Plus, the woman who did my facial last December (in between screams) told me I should get facials AT LEAST once per season, so I was behind several seasons.

We went together for our dual appointments and my esthetician, this time, was the calm, non-screaming variety. However, she did, before doing anything, offer to trim my eyebrows for free which concerned me a wee bit. You know you are hurting when someone offers you pity beauty services, gratis. Then, it was time for my second favorite part of the session: the examine your pores under great lights part (previously known as the unrepressible outcries part). I got to hear all about my blackheads which apparently cover all parts of my face landscape. These were calmly pointed out to me in a gentle, soothing voice, as if telling me about the composer of the last classical piece played by the orchestra.

Soon, we were at my number one favorite part of the process: extraction. I always brace myself for the extraction since it always hurts way more than I remembered, kind of like Labor. Calm, soothing woman showed her serious finger strength as she basically pulverized my face with her fingertips. Internally, I screamed. She started squeezing parts of my face I've never had squeezed. Again, I got off that table thinking that I'd have to stick tiny bits of toilet paper all over my face to stop the 1,000 bleeding holes on my face.

Calm, soothing woman gave me her card and a gentle urging to come visit her again, at least once a season.

I looked in the mirror. No macro-bleeds. And maybe I was glowing. A little. Not with blood.

They're always trying to push products on you, too, after they've shamed you multiple times (once by noting your mega-blackhead-face, once by making you tell them you cleanse your face with a drugstore brand cheapo cleanser, once by squeezing your face so extensively, you are about to go into shock from the trauma). And, like the pathetic face-person you now believe you are, you swear that you will take better care of your face and spring for that $21 cleanser that exfoliates too!

Ah, the spa. And I wonder why I don't make it in there once per season.

A new hair era has dawned

If your child is born with a head full of hair like my boy, by the time he is 10 months, you've either have had to have his hair cut by a professional or attempted to trim it yourself with a random weed wacking approach. I chose the latter.

First of all, it seemed silly to take an infant to a Place that Cuts Hair as a Business. I mean, hello, he's an infant! They're supposed to have crazy hair, if any, right? That's what I was thinking during my multiple home hair trims. The problem is, keeping an infant to keep his head straight and NOT turn his head to look at your pointy scissors is an issue. Especially if you don't want to cut his eyeball. Hence, the only safe approach is to pull random fistfuls of hair far away from delicate bleeding structures and snip. Unfortunately, there are quality-control issues with safe. But, as long as you are okay with a certain - how shall we say- irregularity - with the overall style, you are fine.

With Girl, we've taken her to get her haircut at Cartoon Cuts - the home of exorbitantly priced kiddie haircuts that sucks you in with the Dora videos and novelty. Darn you! I have chosen to do in-between at-home bang trims which turn out reasonably well (read: non-psychologically maiming). The last time I took her to Cartoon Cut$, I asked for a cute bob kind of like mine: longer in the front and shorter in the back. The "stylist" we were assigned to, at one point, said, "This is hard!" and proceeded to cut her hair into a decidedly not-cute whack bob. How do you not know how to cut hair, woman? Apparently, there is a wide range of hair-cutting skillz at the place. I later heard of a stylist there who is The One To Go To by another mother.

Anyhoo, this weekend we decided it was time for Professional Haircuts all around as we are about to have family photos. Boy included. So we headed to Cartoon Cut$ and waited (and waited. and waited.) for the kids' names to be called. Boy was up first, and IT JUST HAPPENED TO BE THE ONE TO GO TO. Oh. yes. I felt victorious! What luck!

The One To Go To cut Boys hair so beautifully and neatly that he instantly was transformed from beastling to boy. The clippers! Wispy bangs! A clean, trim hairline! I oohed and aahed and showered him with beastling-turned-boy kisses. Meanwhile, another woman "stylist" with a goatee called Girl's name and I was all like Not on your life, she-man, she's going to The One To Go To next (in nicer words)!

The One To Go To masterfully scultped an adorable bob on Girl - the exact one I had wanted! She also proceeded to educate me about the various cowlicks my children sport and tips to style their hair given their natural parts! I was swooning. I love this woman. I silently vowed that only The One would cut their hair again! No she-mans! No incompentent luddites! A waiting mother even said as we were walking out, "Your daughter's hair is so cute!" I beamed back, "Thanks! She's (gesturing towards The One) awesome!"

Yes. It is the beginning of a new era. The Non-Mutilating Good Hair Day era in the KC household.

(*Stay tuned for more deep and thought-provoking posts like this one! Maybe I can pull one out about shoes or teeth whitening.)

Edited to add: Temporary teaser shot before readers stage a mutiny on this blog. Please don't hurt me.

Flat irons on the brain

When I got my TOTALLY RAD new haircut some time ago, my stylist whipped out a flat iron to apply to my head. I can't say I felt too comfortable at the time. I didn't know where she was going with my hair. She blew it out all poofy and then waved a steaming baton in the direction of my scalp. I don't know about you, but I get a little twitchy around steaming batons near my scalp. I'll go all out and say I get twitchy whenever an object actively projecting steam is placed in the general vicinity of my person. Maybe it's just me.

I've used curling irons in the past, during that ubiquitous 80's bang-sculpture era (first back, then forward), and hot rollers for that Asian hair rebellion phase, but never had I wielded a flat iron. The mere thought of it made me think back to the '60's when people ironed their hair. Right on the ironing board. It always seemed so drastic. And slightly ridiculous.

But after my stylist clamped a few sections of hair and gently released perfectly smooth and tailored sleek perfection, I've been coveting the flat iron.

This was reinforced when I went home and tried to reproduce the perfectly smooth and tailored sleek perfection and got nest frizz.

(Nest frizz is the antithesis to perfectly smooth and tailored sleek perfection.)

Even before BlogHer, I said to Husband, "Maybe I should bring a flat iron."

To which he said, "Do you even have a flat-iron?"

"No.(Your point being?)"

I didn't end up racing out to buy one at the time, but a few weeks later, found myself pulled to the beauty supply store at the mall one day. Along one whole wall unit were flat irons. Many. different. flat. irons. There were all sorts of brands I had never heard of. Different plate sizes. Most were above $100. I wandered, daft-like, to the saleswoman and asked for her guidance. Size? Type? I smiled my clueless smile.

She recommended a certain model. "That model is great! I use it!"

I took in her nest frizz and made a mental note to disregard this endorsement.

Which was when I realized I had no business trying to buy a flat iron in my current state of flat iron ignorance. No business at all.

Yet, since that time, I remain obsessed with flat irons and even dreamed I was flat-ironing my hair the other night. So, you see, I think my mind is trying to tell me something very important:

YOU NEED THERAPY.

(and please conserve precious brain energy on useful things, i.e. not related to your HAIR.)