Glamour Pushover

On the morning of my wedding I was denied a French manicure without cause. Ulla the aesthetician scowled down at my cuticles and issued the painful verdict: “Noh.”

“No?” I prompted.

Solemnly she shook her head. “Noh.”

“But it’s my wedding day, and I’ve always wanted a French manicure ... ”

“Noh, noh, noh.”

And did I take a stand? Demand an explanation? Threaten to find a salon that would honor my wedding day wishes?

Noh.

I was too afraid! Ulla was a scary woman. Tiny. About 4 feet,  11 inches, glacially blonde, and wielding a large bottle of acetone. If she wanted to paint my nails the color of strawberry Frusen Glädjé — and let’s be clear, that was exactly what Ulla wanted to do — I was not only going to let her, I was going to like it!

A similar thing happened the last time I went to a department store make-up counter to try on lipstick. The aptly named make-up artist, Yelina, actually whooped at me when I asked to see something in crimson. She whooped very loudly.

“WHOOP!” Yelina whooped. “Absolutely noh!”

“No?” I squeaked.

“Noh!”

“But ... ”

“Red vood be like a JUCK on your fess!”

A JUCK? On my fess?

That’s harsh.

And yet so totally expected. When it comes to cosmetics, I’ve learned, mine is not to question why. Mine is to purchase the recommended neutral gloss and wish I’d bought it for $18 less at Rite Aid.

I’m so terrified of putting my fashion foot down, it takes me, on average, three tries to get the haircut of my choice.

“I want to go short,” I’ll say.

“How short?”

I hand over a picture of Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby.
“That’s very short,” they tell me.

“I know.”

“You know that’s well above the ear.”

“I know.”

“You know you won’t be able to put it in a ponytail if we do that.”

“That’s sort of the whole point.”

“How about we just do a chic little bob to your chin, and if you decide you want to go shorter, you can come back?”

Or how about you just do what I asked since I’m the one with the vision, the follicles, and the wallet full of cash? “Okay then. A bob it is!”

Knock knock!

Who’s there?

Confrontation.

Confrontation who?

Did I say confrontation? I meant to say celebration! Of whatever you think is best!

Desperate, I’ve realized the only way to control my cosmetic destiny is to do it myself, under cover, in the dark of night.

I color (and sometimes cut) my own hair. Paint my own nails. And choose my own makeup, all of which I purchase from the corner drugstore.

While the results may be marginal, occasionally validation will tip-toe up and tap me on my wimpy, non-confrontational shoulder.

“Oh my God, I want your hair!” says one acquaintance I very much admire. “Where do you get it done?”

Without explaining why, I tell her I’m a do-it-yourselfer.

“You do your own hair?” She say in awe, mouth agape. “I wish I were as brave as you.”