Good Gifts for Your Hairdresser & Manicurist

I picked up a copy of the December Allure last night, and it was a real treat, like all magazines. Magazines are like candy that you read. They’re so glossy and shiny and beautiful, and, just like candy, you enjoy them for a little while and then they’re gone (read: you threw them out because you got sick of the cover model’s face staring up at you from your coffee table).

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But one little segment in Allure caught my eye. It was a section–a whole section–on good holiday gifts for your service people. Specifically, your hairdresser and your manicurist  “Why, how marrrrrvelous!” I declared. “I was looking for a good gift for Mr. Fekkai!” Oh, wait, no I didn’t, because I don’t have a hairdresser or a manicurist  The suggestion was probably written by one, actually, since they suggested you buy them a wallet or a cashmere scarf.

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Now, I am all for gifting to the people that help make your day a little brighter. And I am sure that hairdressers and manicurists deserve a lot of cashmere scarves considering the insufferable people they have to make small talk to all day. But who the hell does Allure think is reading Allure?! I’m sure some richies do pick it up, but since it also sits next to the Reese’s Cups at the Wegman’s checkout, I’d say a lot more non-riches are regular readers. And who really needs advise on what to get their hairdresser? If you’re swank enough to have your own (which is now a personal dream of mine, after reading that article–it sounds pretty fab) and have the resources to buy them luxe presents, I think you–or your personal shopper–probably already have that on lock.

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That being said, I will do anyone’s nails for a cashmere sweater.

Aloha!

Aloha means hello and goodbye, so goodbye to my never-updating habits, and hello, long-lost readers! I’m trying to update more, given that I’m so fascinating and have so much to say, and coming back to all your lovely comments inspired me further. But be patient with me, since I’m slightly technologically crippled at the moment (updating from the laptop is much easier…RIP, pretty pink HP). See you soon, ciao!

Do You Remember Your Weekend?

Hello, darlings, it’s been a while! I’ve been tragically neglecting this blog because my laptop died (funeral services will be held today at 3:00 pm, BYOB) and using the man’s computer is a bit of a drag–it’s a Mac Mini hooked up to a TV and the screen is so far away from my weak eyes. First World Problems, ahoy!

Anyway, how areeeee you all? Still sexy, I presume. Or drowned in a river of spam (and I don’t mean the canned meat–I came back after my hiatus to find a bucketload of comments and was so excited only to find they were all spammity spam spam spam). How was your weekend?

Mine was like a fire in a circus–intense. Friday was a bestie’s birthday, and I drank two cranberry vodkas at my house (with twist of lime, of course), then we went out and I had a Bahama Mama and half of the two GIANT complimentary birthday margaritas that particular establishment offered (you’re  only supposed to get one but we’re very convincing), then at one thirty we stumbled on to the next place with intentions of a free Das Boot. We both hate beer so we were going to give it to our gentlemen escorts and friends, but as it turned out, this place ALSO gave away margaritas. So naturally I had a White Russian–fine end-of-the-night-drink–half a mint-chocolate shot (don’t ask why half), and most of that even-GIANTER margarita. It probably will surprise no one that I woke up in my slutty clothes, with my purse still on, the birthday girl asleep on my bathroom floor, and three boys sprawled out in the living room (one of them snuggling his head on my 10-lb weights). 

Yesterday, I slept until 3:00 pm to kill my massive hangover (milk thistle helped), went to the movies (Taken 2–I would literally get kidnapped just to fuck Liam Neeson), and was somehow still out until one-thirty. Hope your weekend was as smashing! I promise a real post about something other than my drunken adventures soon.

Celeb-brattys

All celebrities must kind of be assholes brats. I mean, unless you’re the bestfuckingpersonever, I don’t see how all the endless adoration doesn’t go to you head. (It wouldn’t go to mine, of course, since I’m so great, but I digress.) People dedicate hours to making fan pages for you, they cry if they meet you, they spend $10 to hang a poster of you over their bed. You are larger-than-life to the average person, and if that’s not enough to make you a raging narcissist, all your people–agents, friends, directors, show hosts, journalists–fall all over you to give in to your every need.

But probably the most brat-inducing thing about being a celebrity is that people. Fucking. Love. You. I don’t mean all the stuff written above–that they love seeing you, and your work, and blah blah blah. In addition to that, they love YOU. The human. They want to know every little thing about you–your favorite color, how much you weigh, what your childhood was like, what you eat for a midnight snack, what movies are your favorites. They love you so God damn much they want to crawl inside your skin and be you. And that’s a lot of power for someone like, say, Lindsay Lohan.

It’s also the thing that I think (besides the free clothes) would be the best about being a celebrity. You get to talk about yourself all the time and answer stupid questions–that’s fun! Why the hell else would everyone take an hour back in 2003 to fill out those 300-question surveys on MySpace? WE LOVE OURSELVES. So, that shit would be cray.

And so I’m gonna do it! You should too, my regular-ass readers, because let’s face it–we’re all pretty and talented and interesting enough to be famous, we just don’t have famous parents or a coke habit (I hope). So feel free to fill out the Celebratty Full-of-Yourself Questionnaire in the comments–I promise, it’s almost as fun as having the paparazzi stalk your every move.

  1. Place of birth. I’ll never tell. What?! I’m not the famous one here.
  2. Number of tattoos, and meanings. One–freedom, beauty, and love.
  3. Favorite food. Spicy tuna roll.
  4. Pets? One kitten.
  5. Worst thing about being famous. Free drugs.
  6. Best thing about being famous. Free drugs.
  7. Favorite designer. Bags, Balenciaga. Shoes, Louboutin. Dresses, Oscar de la Renta.
  8. Favorite childhood memory. The lake.
  9. Inspirational quote. “C’est la vie.”

This is dumb, now that I wrote it. I’m going to post it anyway. C’est la vie!

Fall Favorites

Fall is my favorite season. It’s the perfect temperature–hoodie weather!–and everything is beautiful (extra so to me, since reds and golds are some of my top colors). Plus, the best parts are that you can wear anything. Literally anything! It’s still warm enough for skirts with cozy cardigans, or jeans, and…okay, if you couldn’t tell, this is just going to be me talking about the clothes I want for fall.

So, foxy little foxies, here is my mandatory wish list for fall. Feel free to buy anything and everything seen below and overnight it to me. Or buy it for yourself and roll around in leaves–or have sex in some! (Just watch out for slugs…I can think of few mood-killers worse than a slug in the wrong place.)

1.) Riding boots. Riding boots are sooo quintessentially fall. I don’t really know why, maybe because they’re preppy–all great fall clothes are, because of memories of going back-to-school or something? Who knows, who cares, buy me some. Snap snap, my delicate feet are catching a chill!

2.) Plaid. Especially in red. So cozy and cute and cuddly, and it crosses over into winter so easily. I have a super-cozy red plaid flannel button-down and you just look so effortlessly cute (or I do, anyway).

Best part? The gents look sexy too

3.) Wool skirts. Are you catching the drift here? Schoolgirl chic, with a kick! (Ha.)

Are you still just sitting dumbly at your computer screen waiting for more things to list? Well, so am I…but I refuse to post them until I get some creamy mocha leather riding boots in my size. Giddy-up!

She’s a Lady (Whoa-Oh-Oh)

I don’t like feminists. I don’t hate them–my own darling mother is one, for God’s sake–but I’m not really fond of them either. Mostly because the only thing they ever seem to talk about is how women should be treated exactly the same as men.

Um…excuse me? So no one will hold the door for me, and pull out my chair, and get me out of a ticket when I bat my very ladylike eyelashes, and not draft me into the Army? Why in God’s name would any woman give up being treated like a woman to be treated like a man?

Now, I understand that’s not the point, but on the other Manolo, it kind of is. If you want fair-square equality for everyone, that’s nice on paper, but that means everything has to be equal, even for door-holding and ticket-dodging. Equal pay at work and government-subsidized tampons, I’m all for. But saying women have to be like men in order to be “equal” is just what pisses me off about feminists. If you want to wear Birkenstocks and never get your eyebrows waxed, that’s just fine. But don’t tell me I’m setting back the cause of womankind by twenty years because I like makeup and a good heel (and put my feminine wiles to use).

Which brings me to my next point. Being a true lady is so undervalued in today’s society. Look at the French. Women there are chic, glamorous, and independent–they make paper (or whatever French money is printed on) in sexy cardigans with perfect hair. Here, if you like to take care of yourself–which means nothing compared to how the French do it, with their obsessive beauty regimes, or Japanese girls, who wear makeup and nice shoes every. single. day–you’re “high maintenance,” not “a lady.”

There is nothing wrong with wanting equal rights, or wearing ugly clothes and not caring how you look, but there’s also nothing wrong with being just the opposite. So how about a  little equality between the Birkenstocks and the Manolos, please? (OR, even better–I can just teleport back to the 1950s, when dressing up for everything was normal and everyone left me alone about equality while I drank Bellinis with Cary Grant.)

Saturday Thoughts

Kevin Spacey looks like he rapes people. But in a kind of sexy way. Maybe.

I’m attracted to old guys. Like really attracted, and I don’t even have daddy issues. I dated my high school teacher after I graduated–I met him by grabbing a book he was reading at his desk out of his hands and going to read it, then bringing it back and making fun of him for a dirty poem about a mountain that was in it. When we got together like four years later, he admitted he wanted me as bad as I had wanted him the whole time. Lolita problems?

Whenever I lie facedown on my bed, I bounce my booty. Like I’m doing right now. It’s weird but I kind of hope it’s accidentally toning my butt or something.

I just watched the entire 2011 Victoria’s Secret fashion show and Nicki Minaj looked so fat and short compared to the models she was performing next to, and she looked kinda pissed about it. She’s also a really, really bad lipsyncer.

Chipmunks should be household pets! They’re cute and I wanna see one in a hamster rolly-ball.

I secretly dislike girls who don’t know how to wear makeup and think it’s funny. You are a LADY. Your looks are a part of life, which is short. Why not enjoy them? Plus it’s so dykey to be hold up a tube of mascara and whine, “Where does thiiiiiis go?”

I was just about to type that I’ve never had sex on a washing machine, and then realized I totally have–and some dryers, too. Funny how quickly you forget your exes.

And th-th-that’s all for my random Saturday thoughts, folks! Nope, not thinking anymore on this day!

Why Kids Suck

Okay, let me preface this by saying I love kids, which might seem totally at odds with the title of this post. What I mean is, having kids sucks. Kids, themselves, the actual human units known as “children,” are pretty great. They’re cute and they say stupid hilarious things and they’re more honest than any adults I’ve ever met (for better or worse).

BUT. But but but but but. Kids who aren’t just human units and happen to be your human units, whole people for whose lives you are entirely responsible, suck. And I know that they are miracles, and they allegedly turn one into a giant love-machine, and “you don’t even know yourself until you have a child,” and blah blah blah.

That’s all great, but I would rather just not know myself if I have to have a child to do it. For people who want kids, that’s great. But for people who don’t, child-havers, please stop judging us as sub-par humans ’cause we’re just not into it. There are plenty of reasons to have a kid, apparently (I’m pretty sure I’m missing any and all maternal/desire-to-carry-on-the-human-race genes), but all I see are reasons to not have a kid. Such as:

  1. They are a 24/7 job. You can’t just shove them away and say, “Well, fuuuuuck this! I’ve had enough of screaming and puking and pooping, and I just want to relax.” You can’t just not take them to school, and listen to their horrible teenage attitudes, and suffer through their ridiculous girlfriend/boyfriend choices. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, you are saddled with responsibility that you can never, ever shake, unless Child Protective Services gets involved.
  2. They are expeeeeensive. Money money monn-ay…all gone.
  3. They ruin your body. (Men, fuck you.) They rip up your lady parts, make your flat stomach scarred and saggy, drag your boobs to the floor (haha I typo’d that as “boops” at first…can that be new slang?), etc. You can always tell a mom from a non-mom unless they had that sucker when they were 15 and bounced back like a rubber band.
  4. They never care about you as much as you care about them. Sure, they love you as much, but they don’t worry about you every second of every day and think about your well-being all the time and how their everylittledecision might affect you. That kind of sounds like having a boyfriend who’s just not that into you, except you can never break up.
  5. If you fuck them up, you fuck. Them. Up. They will be in therapy forever, crying into a couch cushion, just because you scared them with a Bobo doll or had a fight in front of them. They’re like little sponges that you have to squeeze ever-so-gently, or you’ll leave them dried up and bent out of shape forever. (Damn, I’m proud of that analogy.)

And those are just the negative reasons! The positive reasons go on and on and on:

  1. Hot young body for years longer!
  2. Tons of extra money to spend on yourself! Trips, clothes, wine, cars, trips!
  3. No one to look after–more alone time!
  4. More sex!
  5. More drinking!
  6. More motivation to take up a cool hobby when you’re older–salsa dancing? Pottery? Windsurfing?
  7. More of ANY-FUCKING-THING YOU WANT, BECAUSE IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU!

That’s the general idea, you see. The all time, number-one reason I don’t want kids is because I am selfish. To have a child, you give up a huge part of yourself, a huge piece of your life, and a world of possibility you might never get back. It’s the most selfless thing you could ever do…and, ladies and gentleman, I applaud you. And I’ll keep on applauding you when I’m 35, sitting in a comfy living room painting my nails and admiring my new expensive clothes, with not a binky or a bottle in sight. Cheers!

Great and Terrible Beauty (Products)

If you read this blog, you know that I’m a pervert  I love Ian Somherhalder   most of my posts are stupid I love makeup. I love to put it on my face, in my tea, and draw on things with it. Okay, only the first one, but trust me, I. Love. Makeup. And I consider myself something of an expert, since I’ve been messing around with it since I was 11.

The thing about makeup, though, is that it’s just like a man: some of it is just fucking terrific and leaves you glowing, and some of it is trashy and awful. And, also like men, the awful ones might surprise you.

So I did what I do best and put together a little list. I full expect my lady readers to run to their makeup drawers and throw out everything I say is bad. And dudes, I would say to buy your gals some of the nice things, but then they might take it as a, “Hey, ugly, please put this on to cover up your face” kind of thing and that would suck. Maybe just stick with lingerie.

Maybelline Great Lash Mascara: Terrible. This mascara is super popular and is always winning beauty awards, but I think it is one of the worst eyelash enhancers ever invented. Personally, I think the only reason it’s popular is because it’s ghetto cheap and it’s been around since the 80s, so moms keep buying it while fondly reminiscing about Duran Duran concerts. It does NOTHING for your eyelashes except make them darker and clump them together.

Maybelline Volum’ Express Mascara: Great. See, I’m not biased against Maybelline or anything–this mascara has been my one and only since I first bought the yellow tube. I seriously have about five tubes rolling around in my makeup case. It does exactly what you want mascara to do: makes your eyelashes super thick and long. To be fair, I have very long eyelashes, but they’re not thick, so I’m not sure about the fantastic lengthening powers of this stuff, but it makes your eye-dusters super lush.

Covergirl Trublend Pressed Powder: Terrible. Okay, maybe it’s not terrible, but I gotta have some continuity with my rating system here. This stuff is just powder for your face, and it’s not good for your skin and looks like powder when it’s on. Not the worst thing ever, but certainly not good for the whole “flawless face” look that, um, everyone wants. Grandmas who like to look like they just dunked their face into a 40’s flour bucket, rejoice–this one’s for you.

Physicians Formula Mineral Wear Talc-Free Mineral Airbrushing Loose Powder: Great. And yes, that’s the full name. It is lovely. It doesn’t make my ridiculously sensitive skin break out, the colors are really blend-y, and unless you apply it super heavy-handedly it doesn’t look powdery. Plus, one container lasts forrreverrr.

Physicians Formula Blush: Terrible. (I can’t find it on their website, so I don’t know the full name, but maybe they know it’s terrible and discontinued it.) The palest pink gives you rouged-on bright red cheeks no matter how little you use, and the applicator is weird and doesn’t work. I love Physicians Formula but this stuff was/is terrrrible.

Logona Blush Powder Duos: Great. So great they deserve all-caps. GREAT! If you’re not familiar, Logona is a German, BDIH-certified brand of all-natural makeup that is fucking stellar. I get their stuff at a crunchy natural-junk store near my job, and everything they make is good (their red lip pencil is amazing). This blush is right on par, and the palette has two colors for the price of one.

L’Oreal HIP High Intensity Pigments Concentrated Eye Shadow Duo: Terrible. Now, I have only tried one color set of this, and it was greens, which is a little weird to begin with. So these might not be all bad. But holy fuck, do I hate this eyeshadow. It goes on really dark and uneven, some parts going on super matte and color-packed and other parts sheer. A clean sweep leaves you looking like you rubbed your eyes after crying. AWFUL.

Revlon Colorstay 16 Hour Eyeshadow: Great. I own about seven different color palettes of these. They are color-true, although a little sheer, but you can layer them to get the darkness you want, and they don’t smudge unless you fuck around with your eyes, and then what do you expect to happen! These are, I have to say, definitely not the best eyeshadows in the world or anything, but totally solid for the price.

Okay, stop reading, and go throw out your old-ass green-and-pink tubes of Great Lash already!

Scrap-Person

When I was little, I had this really weird habit of wanting to be just one “type” of person. A perfectly encapsulated stereotype of a human, 100% of the time found in some movie I liked. And it usually never made sense. Some of the people I remember wanting to be are: a gladiator (guess what film that one was from?), a grease monkey, a glamorous lady, and Alison from Judy Blume’s Just as Long as We’re Together because she was always nice and everyone loved her.

And then I grew up, and nothing changed. Okay, a little changed–I stopped caring about making my personality like people from books and movies (because I’m AWESOME) and mostly wanted to look/dress/have hair like people from books and movies. So I’d go all bananas on one style for a few weeks, then move on to the next one. Bada-bing. But some notable characters stuck out, and so these are the people whose style I steal in some kind of twisted self-scrapbooking way:

Brigitte Bardot

Brigitte is my girl forever. She’s gorgeous, crazy, timeless, and her clothes are un-fucking-real. I love her giant hair and raccoon eyes, but it’s her outfits that go into my WildHearts scrapbook of life.

Candice Swanepoel

Scrapbook element: makeup. After all, if you’re going to have face-paint inspiration, who better than a Victoria’s Secret model?

Ballerinas

They’re the reason I love black tights. Ballet clothes are so pretty and simple and effortless and, sure, look way better on anorexic dancers than the average person, but who said I was average?

Bohemians

I forgot to add “gypsy” to the list of things I really wanted to be when I was little.

I’m bored now. You’re probably bored too! Or, if you’re an American, you’re probably too busy watching your dad blow off his fingers with a firework to read this post.

 

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