Your Beauty Routine (or Lack Thereof) Doesn’t Define Your Beauty
As a woman, I’m supposed to have cultivated my “be more attractive rituals,” because you know–looking good is my value to society and all. I guess I only have a few years left before I wither away into total insignificance by allowing myself to admit mortality with wrinkles. GROSS! YUCK! NEVER!
Here’s my problem: my ceremonial, “getting myself looking the best I can” sacraments are pretty pathetic. My mom’s always trying to inspire me to participate in self-care observances, and will make gentle suggestions like “maybe don’t use dish soap as shampoo.”
For my birthday she gave me a Clarisonic to exfoliate with, and then handed me an electric broom for my face. I’m sure this apparatus would provide a positive outcome if I pressed its bristles against my skin to sweep away pesky cells, but I can barely motivate myself to brush my teeth let alone my cheeks.
Mom, can’t I just drink the blood of virgins to stay young?
Cruel and Unusual Beauty Endeavors
When I think about all the “chick” things I am supposed to doing in order to be hot, I want to impale myself with ironic “bang-cutting” scissors. Half of the things that are expected of me are actual torture. I’m seriously expected to rip hair out my body at an alarming speed with steaming hot bee diarrhea. I guess shaving my legs once a season isn’t enough world?!
According to beauty standards, it is also frowned upon to allow my armpit hair to sometimes blow in the wind. And stop wondering what’s going on with my vagina, you pervert!
Women who have the money cut off body parts, suck others out, and then stuff the rest with various toxic materials. The plastic surgery options to improve imperfections range from puffing up your mouth with collagen, to tucking in your twat into the shape of an om. Call me old fashioned, but maybe all four of your lips would be just fine if you left them alone.
The Uncomfortable Uniform of Sexiness
First, it’s recommended I separate my butt cheeks with a lacy fabric. Maybe it is just me, but flossing my ass is even more irritating than my teeth (and my gums bleed every time I do that).
Then I am supposed to press, lift, and smash my tits into an underwire bra. No no no, that cozy sports bra won’t do, because then I have a “uni-boob” which is even worse then a uni-brow.
Don’t even get me started on skinny jeans and buttons. It’s like a corset for my digestive track. I can’t wear tight pants and eat food because what if I have to sit down? The pressure is too much on my abdomen, and makes my intestines feel like it’s exam day.
If you throw some high heels into the mix then forget it. I’m completely useless and can’t do anything but stand in one place and sip water.
Beautiful, Moveable, and Opinions Included!
Come to think of it, in the right outfit, I AM the perfect woman. I will keep all my silly opinions to myself because I wont be able to talk. I will just stay quiet and pretty because of the concentration required for me to cope with excessive hunger, staying balanced on stilts, and making sure my mascara doesn’t run from tears of pain.
That is why I have come to accept yoga as my official beauty routine. I can wear stretchy pants that allow me to sit in a variety of positions. I don’t need makeup because my face gets that nice “after practice” glow (otherwise known as super red and sweaty).