Committing a Beauty SIN

Well, it happened. I committed one of the Cardinal Sins of Beauty: "Thou shalt not squeeze blackheads."

I know, I know.

"Ew! That's nasty!"

Well, yes. It was quite nasty to go into the ladies' room at work (where all flaws are accentuated by the blue-white glow of the fluorescent lights) and see a big, black dot on the side of my chin.

Why didn't I see it while putting on my makeup? Why do buildings use these horrific lights? Why does it look so much bigger when I smile? God, it was like smooshing Silly Putty on a newspaper photo and then stretching it out.

I'm a fool, I know, but I can't resist squeezing those suckers. Usually, I use the inside of a bobby pin's hook to remove the black crud from said clogged pore (be careful if you use this method, it works, but you always run the risk of breaking a blood vessel or getting a small infection - it's always best to leave that sort of thing for an aesthetician). But since I was bobby pin-less, aesthetician-less and had a big meeting in five, I needed to act fast.

I squeezed. Nothing. I leaned toward the mirror to examine. Getting red. I squeezed again. Christ!! Now I had fingernail half-moons on my face.

I'll spare you the dirty details of what came (out) next, but after I left the bathroom with a bleeding, red chin, running late for a meeting - I made a two-part executive decision.

1. Always have a bobby pin on hand
2. Never lean that far over the bathroom sink at work without first checking for a giant puddle of someone's dirty hand-wash water, which will most certainly leave a sexy wet spot on your box.

The Quest for the Perfect Stylist

I think it's because my mother was a cosmetologist; but I am such a snob about picking hair stylists.

I grew up around all the latest products and hair trends, and whenever the whim hit me I'd have a new style. For example, even though I already had curly hair, at age 8 I wanted to BE Counselor Deanna Troi on Star Trek: The Next Generation. She had the BEST hair. Long, spiral curls, each perfectly defined as they cascaded down her shoulders. Who WOULDN'T want that hair, even now, nearly 20 years later.

Anyhoodle, I convinced my mother to give me a spiral perm - executed with the LATEST thing, the spiral rod, which looked like a bright blue pasta noodle. It was not a fun two hours, because each section of hair had to be threaded around the "noodles." Once the rods came off and the process was over, I basically resembled a brunette dandelion puff. Not a good look.

So many years later, in a new city, I have a new hair ambition - sort of a hybrid between Brenda Walsh circa 1993 and Anne Hathaway's made over style in The Devil Wears Prada. Long layers in the back, tons of face framing layers, and shorter bangs. I can't WAIT!

But with no stylist to help me pull it off, I had to turn to my good friend Sophia, a native of southwestern Connecticut who directed me to a stylist named Rosie. Sophia's hair always looks nice, so I figured I'd take her word for it. And when choosing a new stylist - you have to see her/his work to judge for yourself, before you pay $70 for a bad haircut.

The last time I chose a stylist, I had watched her work, and was very happy with her methodologies. Only after I watched her transform a friend's wispy, flat, ashy blonde into a shiny, dimensional bob was I convinced of her prowess as a stylist. And I was a happy client for 3 years.

I made an appointment for Saturday morning - so I'll keep you posted.